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D0021010J
i^:i
R
\ IIMIGS
m
-Ci
VSAFBS.
IPANT, 1
LONDON LABOUR
AKD THE
LONDON POOR ;
CYCLOPAEDIA OF THE CONDITION AND EARNINGS
THOSE THAT WILL WOEK,
THOSE THAT CANNOT WORK, AND
THOSE THAT WILL NOT WOEK.
BY
HENRY MAYHEW.
THE LONDON STREET-FOLK;
OOXPBISINO,
STREET SELLEBS. | STREET PERFOBMEBS.
STREET BUYERS.
STREET FINDERS.
STREET ARTIZANS.
STREET LABOURERS.
WITH NT7MEBOUS :iI<I.nSTBATIONS FBOM FHOTOQBAPHS.
VOLUME in.
LONDON:
GRIFFIN, BOHN, AND COMPANY,
STATIONERS' HALL COUBT.
1861.
^5^.. e.. bO
i
{
V.1
'i y I »
.•a«:
^.^ ^ r - • ^ ^ \ ri.1
riOUr^* KUrf fiiM
^' ^a HCCfVlOJ
LONDON LABOUR
LONDON POOR.
THE LONDON STBEET-FOLK.
' \i rj. \/ J.
XI
l«AP/ •
QCmoj 2H\
1 •!
LONDON LABOUR
LONDON POOE.
THE LONDON STKEET-FOLK.
xjO!(mii: nxsTED BT w. moma asj> bou, STAaioiD streit avd chaxikq csom.
LIST OP ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAOI
Kat-Eilliko at Sfobtinq PuBLic-HorsEs -------7
Jack Black, Bat>Killeb to Her Majksty ---..- h
Prxcn's Showman, with AssiBTAirr .......45
Grr FArx --.--.-..--63
Stbeet-Teleboofe Ezhibitob .--..---81
StBEET-AoBOBATB PKBTOBMniG --------93
STRKET-€k>NJIJBOB - - - - - - - - - -117
Cibccb-Clown AT Faib .-------- 132
Street-Pebfobmebs OS Stilts --.-----150
Old Sarah -----..---- igo
ErmopLiN Sebenadkbs -...-.--- 190
LfTTEBioB or Photogbafheb's Tbayellinq Cakatan - ... - 207
A GARBET-MAffrEB, OR Ghbap Gabinet-Makeb ------ 225
Gaho OF Coal-Whuters at work below Bridge ----- 241
Cqai^Pobters FiLuiro WAOGoa» at Coal-Wharf - - - - - 261
Ballast-heaters at Work ih the Pool ------- 279
Lumpers Dischaboiho Timber-Ship ik Commercial Dock - - - ' - 297
A Dinner at a Cheap Lodoino-House ------- 314
Thames Lightermen tcooino awat at the Oar - - - - - 338
Cab-Driter ----------- 351
Street Ticket-Pobtxrs with Knot -..-..- 354
Yaobaiit in the Casual Wabd of Wobkhovse ------ 387
Vaobant, from the Befuge in Plathoubb-Yard, Crifplbqate - - . 406
Vagrant, from Asylum fob the Houseless Poob ----- 428
Meeting of Ticket-of-Leayb Men --•---. 430
CONTENTS
OF
VOLUME m.
THE STEEET-FOLK
PACK
TdE DE8TBOYEB8 OF YeBMIN ........j
Stbeet-Exhibitobs -------.-.43
Stbeet-Musicians -------...158
Stbeet-Yocalists ------.-..190
StBEET-AbTISTB ------.... OQ^
exhibitobs of tuained astmais ------.. 214
Skilled asd Unskilled Laboub ---.-...221
GABBET-MAflfTEBS --------.-221
The CoaitHkayebs ---.--.... 234
Ballabt-IIIen -------.-.. 2G5
LuMFZBS ---------.-. 288
The Dock-Laboubeb8 -------... 300
Cni;^ LoDORfG-HousEB ------... 312
The Tbansit of Gbeat Bbttain and the Metbofolxs - - . . 313
IiOinx>3r Watebxee, Liohtebmex, and Steauboat-Men - •> . . 327
London Omnibus-Dbiyebs and Conductobs ---..« 33q
London Gab-Dbitebb -----..... 352
London Cabmen and Pobtebs ---..... 357
IX)NDON YaOBANTS ------.•.. 3^
Meetino of Ticket-of-Leave Men
430
CONTENTS
OF
VOLUME HL
THE STREET-FOLK.
PAGE
The Debtboyxbs of Vebmin .----...j
I Stheet-Exhibitobs ----------43
I STBEET-MrSIdANS ---------« JQg
Stbket-Yocalists ----------190
, Street-Abtistb ---------. 204
I ExmBXTOBS or Trained Animals -------- 214
I
j Skilled and Unskilled Labocb -------- 221
I GABBn-MABTKBS ----------221
The Coal-Hkatebs ----------234
I Ballast-Men ----------- 2G5
LrxFEBS ------------ 288
' Tnz Dock-Labocbebs ---------- 300
Cheap LoDGiNo-HorsES --------- 312
The Tbanbit or Gbeat Britain and the Metbofolxs - - . . 323
London Watebmen, Lightermen, and Steamboat-Men - - - - 327
I London Omnibus-Dritxbs and Conduoiobs -----« 330
London Cab-Dbitebs -------- -.351
I London Cabmen and Pobtebs -----... 357
I London Vaobantb ----.-.... 3^
Meetcio of Ticketot-Leave Men ---.... 430
LONDON LABOUR
AND
THE LONDON POOR
THE DESTROYERS OF VERMIN.
Ths Baz-£ili£B.
IN " the Brill," or rather in Brill-place,
Somers'-town, there is a variety of courts
branching oat into Chapel-street, and in
one of tho most angular and obscure of these is
to be found a perfect nest of rat-catchers — not
r\iogcther professional rat-catchers, bat for
the most part sporting mechanics and coster-
1 LLongers. The court is not easily to be found,
being inhabited by men not so well known in
Iho inime\Uate neighbourhood as perhaps a
mile or two away, and only to be discovered by
the aid and dinectioo of the little girl at the
ueiixhhomiDg cat's-meat shop.
JVJ r first experience of this court was the
usual diftturbttuce at the entrance. I found
ono end or branch of it filled with a mob of eager
listeners principally women, all attracted to a
particular house by the sounds of quarrelling.
One man gave it as his opinion that the dis-
turbers must have earned too much money
yesterday ; and a woman, speaking to another
who hod just come out, lifting up both her
lionds and laughing, said, *^ Here they are— at
it ai^om ! *'
1 he rat-killer whom we were in search of
WAS oat at his stall in Chapel-street when we
called, hut his wifo soon fetched him. He was
a strong, sturdy-looking man, rather above tbc
middle height, with hght hair, ending in sandy
wliiskers, reaching \mder his chin, sharp deep-
set eyes, a tight-skinned nose that looked as if
the cuticle had been stretched to its utmost on
its bridge. He was dressed in the ordinaiy
cordaroy costermonger habit, having, in addi-
tion, a dai'k blue Guernsey drawn over his
wai^tcoat^
The man's first anxiety was to show us that
raU were not his only diversion ; and in con-
sequence he took UB into the yard of the house,
where in a shed la^ a bull-dog, a bull-bitch,
and a litter of j>up8 just a week old. They did
not belong to him, but he said he did a good
deal in the way of curing dogs when he could
get 'em.
On a shelf in this shed wore two large
dishes, the one containing mussels without the
shells, and tlie other eels ; these are the com-
modities in which lie deals at present, so that
he is properly what one would call a^*picklad-
eel seller."
We found his room on the first-floor clean
and tidy, of a good size, containing two bed-
steads and a large sea-chest, besides an old-
fashioned, rickety, mahogany table, while in a
far comer of the room, perhaps waiting for the
cold weather and the winter's fire, was an arm-
chair. Behind the door hung a couple of dog-
leads, made of strong leather, and nrtmnntnl
with brass. Against one side of the wall were
two framed engrarin^s of animals, and a sort
of chart of animated uatiure, while over the
mantel. shelf was a vaiiety of most character-
istic articles. Amonpr these appeared a model
of a bull-dog's head, cut out of sandstone, and
painted in imitation of nature — a most mar-
vellous piece of ugliness. ^ He was the best
dog I ever see," said the host, " and when I
parted with him for a ten -pound note, a man
as worked in Uie New Road took and raado
this model — ^he was a real beauty, was that dog.
The man as carved that there, didn't have no
dilficulty in holdin' him still, becos he was very
good at that sort o' thing; and when he'd
looked at anything he couldn't be off doin' it"
There were alsi) a great many common
prints about the wells, " a penny eacli, frame
and all," amongst which were four dogs — all
ratting— a game cock, two Robinson Cruaoes,
and three scripture subjects.
There was, besides, a photograph of another
favourite dog which hod " had give him."
The man apologised for the bareness of the
room, but said, *• You see, master, my brother
went over to 'Merica contracting fbr a railway
Ko. i.V.
\i
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
under Peto's, and they sends to me about a i
year ago, telling iiie to get together as many .
Lkely fellowb o.^ 1 could (about u dozen), nnd |
m^} tlieni over a*» excavators ; and when 1 was j
ready, to f^o to I'eiu's and get ^vliut money I I
wanted. Itut wlien I'd gut tlie men, bold olT,
all my stieks, and went for tlie money, they \
told mo my brother hud got plenty, and that if
Jie wanted me he ought to be ashamed of
Irisself not to send some over hissclf; so I
just got togetlier these few things again, and I
ain't heard of nothing at all about it since."
AAer I liad sutisfit-d him that I was not a
collector of dog-tax, trying to liud out how
many animals he kept, he gave me what he
evidently tlnaif^lit was "a treat" — a peep at
his bull-dog, wliii'h he fetched from upstairs,
and let it jump ubi»ut the room with a most
unpleasant hberty, informing me the wliile
how he had given live poimd fur him, and
that one of the first pups he got by a bull he
had got five pounds for, and that cleared him.
•* That Punch" {the bull dog's name), he said,
** is as quiet as a lamb — wouldn't Imrt nobody ;
I frequently takes him through the streets
without a lead. Sartainly lie killed a cat the
t'other aficmoon, but ho couldn't help that,
'cause the cat Hew at him ; tliough he took it
as quietly as a man woidd a woman hi a pas-
sion, and only went at her just to save his
eyes. But you couldn't ea.sy get him off, mas-
ter, when he once got a lu»lt. Ho was a good
one for rats, and, ho believed, the stanchest and
tiicksiest dog in London."
When he had token the brut« upstairs, for
which I was not a little thankful, the man
made the following statement : —
<'I a'n't a Londoner. I've travelled all
about the coimtxy. I'm a native of Iver, in
Buckinghamshire . I've been three year heie
at Uiese lodgings, and live year in London
altogetlier up to last September.
" Before I como to ]^>ndiin I wjis nothink,
hir— a laboiu'ing man, an oshkrwator. 1 come
to London the Kame as Uie rest^ to do anytliiuk
1 could. I was at work at the eshkewati'ons at
King's Cross Station. I work as hard as nuy
man in London, I think.
♦« When the station was finished, I, having a
large family, thought I'd do the best I couhl,
so I went to bi> forenmn at the (.-aleilonian Saw-
mills. I st<»pp«'d tlurn a twelvemonth; but
ontMlay I went f«>r a load and a-half of lime,
and where y<iu frtfhes n loud and a-lndf of lime
they alwoys givrs you fowrpence. So as I was
having apint oflM-er out ;»f it, my master come
by and saw \w drinking, and give me the
8a(*k. Thi'u Ih- wanted me to ux his pardon,
audi might slop; Imt I told him I wouldn't
beg no onr's pardon for drinking a pint of beer
as wjiH give nir. So 1 left there.
*• Kver sini-e the (.in-at Western was begun,
my family has bet>n distributed all over the
country, where>rr there was a railway making.
'My broth«'i*s were contractors for Peto, and I
generally worked fur my brothers; butlhey*ve
gone to America, and taken a contract f(>r a
railway at St. John's, New Biiinswiek, British
North America. I can do anythmg in the
eshkewadng way — I don't care what it is.
** After I left the Caledonian Sawmills I
went to Billingsgate, and bt>ught anythink I
could see a chance of gettin' a shilling out on,
or to'ards keeping my family. •
" All my lifetime I've bren a-dealing a little
in rats ; but it was not till I come to London
that I turned my mind fully to that si.>rt of
thing. My father always had a great notion
of the same. We all like the sport. When
any on us was in tlie country, and the farmers
wanted us to, we'd do it. If an \ body heerd
tell of my being an activish chap like, iu that
BoH of way, they'd get me to rome for a day
or so.
*' If anybody has a plaro that's eaten up
with rats, I goes and gets some feniiu, and
takes a dog, if I've got one, and manner*: s to
kill 'em. Sometimes I keep my own feirui>i,
but mo&tly I bon-ows them, Tliis yomi^ man
that's with me, he'll sometimes have an onU r
ti) go tifty or sixty mile into tlie countiy, ami
then ho buys his ferruts, or gets them the
best way ho can. They ciiarges a go«»l sum
for the loan of 'em — sometimes as much as
you get for the job.
"You can buy ferruts at Ijcadenludl -market
for 5a. or 7a. — it idl depends; you cant get
them all at one price, Homo of 'em is r« al
Cowards to what others is; some won't even
kill a rat. The way wo tries 'em is, vi'jMits
'em down anywhere, in a room may Ik.*, >viih a
rat, and if they smell about and won't ^'o lU)
to it, why they won't do; 'caust y..u >ei-.
sometimes the ferrut has to go up a hole, and
at the end there may be a dozen or sixteen
rats, and if he hasn't got the heart to tackli>
one on 'em, why he ain't worth a furden.
" I have kept ferruts for four or five months
at a time, but they're nasty stinking tilings.
I've had them get loose; but, bless you. they
do no harm, they're as hinnocent as cats ; they
won't hurt nothink ; you cau play with them
like a kitten. Some puts things down to ketch
rats — sorts of pison, which is tlieir serret —
but I don't. I i-elies upon my dogs and foiTuts,
and nothink else.
" I%ent to desti*oy a few rats tip at linssell-
square; there was a shore come right aloiiL:.
and a few holes — they was swarmed with 'em
there — and ilidn't know how it was; but the
cleverest men in the world couldn't kclclj
many there, 'cause you see, master, they rnx't
down the hole into the shore, and uu dog could
get through a rat -hole.
*'I couldn't get my livhig, though, at tiiai
business. If any gentleman corner to nu and
says ho wants a dog cured, or a few rats d»>
stroyed, I does it.
•*in the country they give you fouqience a
rat, and you c:m kill sometimes as many in a
farmyard as you cau in London. The most I
ever got for destroying rats was fom- bob, and
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
then I filled np tlio brickwork and made the
holes good, and there was no more come.
** I calls myself a coster ; some calls their-
selves general dealers, but I doesn't. I goes to
market, and if one thing don't suit, why I buys
another.
" I don't know whether you've heerd of it,
master, or not, but I'm the man as they say
kills rats — ^at's to say, I kills 'em like a dog.
I m almost ashamed to mention it, and I shall
never do it any more, but I've killed rats for
a wager often. You see it's only been done
like for a lark ; we've bin all together daring
one another, and trying to do something as
nobody else could. I remember the first time
I did it for a wager, it was up at , where
they've got a pit. There was a bull-dog a
killing rats, so I says,
" * Oh, that's a duffin' dog ; any dog could
kill quicker than him. I'd kill again him my-
self.'
** Well, then they chaffed me, and I wam't
goin' to be done ; so I says,
" * 111 kill again that dog for a soVrin.'
*' The sov^rin was staked. I wont down to
kill eight rats again the dog, and I beat hira.
I killed 'em like a dog, with my teeth. I went
down hands and knees and bit 'em. I've done
it three times for a sov'rin, and I've won each
time. I feels very much ashamed of it,
though.
" On the hind part of my neck, as you may
s?e, sir, there's a scar; that's where I was bit
bT one; the rat twisted hisself round and
held on like a vice. It was very bad, sir, for
ft long time ; it festered, and broke out once
or t\"nce, but it's all right now."
Bats.
" The rat, though small, weak, and contemp-
tible in its appearance, possesses properties
that render it a more formidable enemy to
mankind, and more injurious to the interests
of society, than even those animals that are
endued with the greatest strength and the
most rapacious dispositions. To the one we
can oppose united powers and superior arts ;
with regard to the other, experience has con-
vinc«d us that no art can counteract the
ei£iicX3 of its amazing fecundity, and that
force is incfl'ectually directed against an ani-
mal possessed of such variety of means to
elude it.
'* There are two kinds of rats known in this
country, — the black rat, which was formerly
universal here, but is now very rarely seen,
having been almost extirpated by the large
brown kind, which is generally distinguished
by the name of the Norway rat»
" This formidable invader is now xmiversally
diffused through the whole country, from
whemee every method has been tried in vain
to exterminate it. This species is about nine
inches long, of a light-brown colour, mixed
with tawnj and ash ; the throat and belly are
of a dirty white, inclining to grey ; its feet are
naked, and of a pale flesh-colour ; the taU is
as long as the body, covered with minute
dusky scales, thinly interspersed with short
hairs. In summer it frequents the banks of
rivers, ponds, and ditches, where it lives on
frogs, fishes, and small animals. But its rapa-
city is not entirely confined to these. It de-
stroys rabbits, poultry, young pigeons, &c. It
infests the granaiy, the bom, and the store-
house ; does infinite mischief among com and
fruit of all kinds ; and not content with satis-
fjing its hunger, frequently carries off large
quantities to its hiding-place. It is a bold and
fierce little animal, and when closely pursued,
will turn and fasten on its assailant. Its bite
is keen, and the wound it inflicts is painful
and difficult to heal, owing to the form of its
teeth, which are long, sharp, and of an irre-
gular shape.
" The rat is amazingly prolific, usually pro-
ducing from twelve to eighteen young ones at
one time. Their numbers would soon in-
cresise beyond all power of restraint, were it
not for an insatiable appetite, that impels
them to desti'oy and devour each other. The
weaker always fall a prey to the stronger;
and a large male rat, which usually lives by
itself, is dreaded by those of its own species as
their most formidable enemy.
" It is a singular fact in the history of those
animals, that the skins of such of them as
have been devoured in their holes have fre-
quently been found curiously turned insido
out, every part being completely inverted,
even to the ends of the toes. How the opera-
tion is performed it would be difficult to ascer-
tain ; but it appears to be effected in somo
peculiar mode of eating out the contents.
" Besides tlie numbers that perish in these
unnatural conflicts, they have many fierce and
inveterate enemies, that take every occasion to
destroy them. Mankind have contrived vari-
ous methods of exterininating these bold in-
truders. For this purpose traps are often
found ineffectual, such being the sagacity of
the animals, that when any aro drawn into
the snare, the others by such means learn to
avoid the dangerous alliu-ement, notwith-
standing the utmost caution may have been
used to conceal the design. The surest me-
thod of killing them is by poison. Nux vomica
groimd and mixed with oatmeal, with a small
proportion of oil of rhodium and musk, have
been found from experience to be very effec-
tual.
" The water-rat is somewhat smaller than
the Norway rat ; its head larger and its nose
thicker; its eyes are small; its ears short;
scarcely appearing through the hair ; its teeth
are large, strong, and yellow ; the hair on its
body thicker and longer than that of the com-
mon rat, and chiefly of a dark brown colour
mixed with red; the belly is grey; the tail five
inches long, covered with short black hairs,
and the tip with white.
ZOXDOX LABOVR AXD THE LONDON POOR,
" Tho water -rat gcnorally frequents the
sides of riverfi, ponds, und diiohes, where it
burrows and forms its nest. It feeds on frogs,
small lish and spawn, swiius anil divc5 re-
markably fast, and can continue c long time
under water."*
In Mr. diaries Fothergill's Essay on the
Philo9oph}f^ Stutly, and Use of Natural History
(im3),wo find some roflectinns which remind
us of lUy and Dcrham. Wo shall cxiract a
few paragraplia whicli relate to the subject in
hand.
** Notliing can afTor*! a finr»r illustration of
the beautiful order and simplicity of the laws
which govern tho creation, &au tho certainty,
precision, and regularity with wliioh tho na-
tural checks in the superabundant increase of
each tribe of animals arc manngi.'d ; and even-
family is subject to the operatir>n of checks
peculiar to the species — whatever it may be —
and established by a wise law of tho Most
High, to counteract the fatal ciTocts that might
arise from an ev(T-active populntive principle.
It is by the admirable disposition of tlieso
checks, the contemplation of which is rJone
Bufflciont to astonish tho loftiest and most
comprehensive wnUL of man, that tho whole
system of animal life, in all its various foims,
is kept in due strengtJi and equilibrium.
" This subject is worthy of tho naturalist's
most sorioua consideration.''
** This groat law," Mr. F. proceeds, " per-
vades and affects the wholo nninial creation,
and so active, unwearied, and rapid is the
principle of increase over tho means of sub-
aistenco amongst tho inferior animals, that it
is evident whole genera of carnivorous beings
amongst beasts, birds, fish, reptiles, and in-
sects, havo been created for the express pur-
pass (?) of suppressing tho redundancy of
others, and restraining tlicir numbers wiihin
proper limits.
** But oven tho natural checks are insuffi-
cient to restrain the etfects of a too-rapid
pnpulative principle in some animals which
have, therefore, certain destructive propensi.
ties given to them by the Creator, that operate
powerfidly upon tlicmselves and their off-
Bpring, as may be particularly observed in the
natural history of tho rahbUy but which is still
more evidently and strikingly displayed in the
life and economy of tlie rat,
** It has been calculated by 3Ir. Pennant,
and there can be no doubt of the truth of the
statement, that the astonishing number of
1,274,840 may be produced from a single pair
of rabbits in the short space of four years, as
these animals in their wild state breed seven
times in a-year, and generally produce eight
young ones each time. They are capable of
procreation at the age of five or six months,
and the doe carries her burthen no more than
thirty days.
" But tho principle of increase is much
* Bewiok'a H'atory qf Quadntpeds, 1790,$MetKf.
more powerful, active, and effective in the
common grey rat than in any other animal of
equal size. This destructive animal is conti-
nually under the furor of animal love. Tho
female carries her young for one month only ;
and she seldom or never produces a loss num-
ber than twelve, but sometimes as maiiy as
eighteen at a litter — the medium number may
be taken for an average — and tho period of
gestation, tliough of such short continuance, is
confined to no particular season of- the yeixr.
" The embraces of the male are admitted
immediately after tlie birth of the vindictive
progeny; and it is a fact which I liuvc as-
certained beyond any doubt, that tlie female
suckles her young ones nlmost to the very
moment when another litter is dropping into
the world as their successors.
"A celebrated Yorkshire rat-catcher whrnn I
have occasionally employed, ono day killed a
lai-go female rat, that wus in the act of suck-
ling twelve young ones, which had attained a
very considerable growth ; nevertheless, upon
o]vening her swollen boily, he found thijteen
quick young, tliat were within a few days of
their birth. Supposing, thcn^fore, that tho
rat produces ten litters in tho course f»f a
year, and that no check on their increase
should operate destructively fur tlio space of
four years, a number not far sliort of 3,<KM),000
might \m^ produced from a tiiitjle i>air in that
time I
*• Now, the consequence of such an nctivo
and productive principle of increase, if su:l'rivd
continually to operate without check, v.oidd
soon be fatally obvious. Wk have herrd of
fertile plains devastated, and largo t<»\vii;* un.
demiinod, in Spain, by rabbits; and even
that a military force fi-um Jtomo was onco re-
que^ted of the grc-at Augustus to suppn-s^ the
astonishing numbers of tlie same auimal over-
running tlie island of Mii\,iorca and ^liiiorco.
This circumstance is recorded by I'liiiy.
"If, therefore, rats were sullcred if) mul-
tiply without the restndut of the most power-
ful and positive natural checks, not only would
fertile plains and rich cities l»c undermined
and destroyed, but the whole surface of the
earth in a very few years woubl bo rtoidered a
barren tad hideous waste, covered with my-
riads of fkmished grey rats, against which man
himself would contend in vain. But the same
Almighty Being who perceived a necessity for
their existence, has also restricted tlieir num-
bers within proper bounds, by creating t(» them
many very poweiftil enemies, and still more
effectually by establishing a propensity in
themselves, the gratification of which has con-
tinually the eifect of lessening their numl»ors,
oven more than any of their foreign enemies.
" The male rat has an insatiable thirst for
the blood of his own offspring; tho female,
being aware of this passion, hides her young
in such secret jiliices as 8h») supposes likely to
escape notice or discovery, till her progf'uy are
old enough to venture forth and stand upon
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
tlieir own energies ; but, notwitfastunding this
pn.'caation, the male rat frequently discovers
tliem, and destroys as many as he can ;. nor is
the defence of the mother any very efifectiuil
protection, since she herself sometiiues foils a
victim to her temerity and her maternal ten-
derness.
** Besides this propensity to the destraction
of thoir own offspring, when other food fails
them, rats hunt down and prey upon each
other with the most ferocious and desperate
ftuditjT. inasmuch as it not un&equently hap-
pens, in a colouy of these destructive ammals,
tliat a single male of more Uian ordinxiry
powei^i, after having overcome and devoured
all competitors with the exception of a few
females, reigns the sole bloody and much-
dreaded tyrant over a considerable territory,
dwelling by himself in some solitary hole, and
never appearing abroad without spreading
terror and dismay even amongst the females
whose embraces he seeks. In this relentless
and bloody character may be found one of the
most powerful and positive of the checks
which operate to the repression of this species
within proper bounds ; a character which at-
taches, in a greater or less degree, to the
whole Mum genns, and in which we may readily
perceive the cause of the extirpation of the
old blMck rats of England, Jdus raihus; for the
largo grey rats, having superior bodily powers
united to the same carnivorous propensities,
would easily conquer and destroy their
black opponents wherever they could bo
found, and whenever they mot to dispute the
title of possession or of sovereignty."
When the young rats begin to issue from
their holes, the mother watches, defends, and
even ilghts with the oats, in order to save
thezD. A large rat is more mischievous than
a young cat, and nearly as strong : the rat
uses her fore-teeth, and the cat makes most
use of her claws ; so that the latter requires
both to be vigorous and accustomed to fight,
in order to destroy her adversaxy.
The weasel, though smaller, is a much more
dangerous and formidable enemy to the rat,
because it can follow it into its retreat. Its
strength being nearly equal to that of the rat,
the combat often continues for a long time,
but the method of using their arms by the
opponents is very different. The rat wounds
only by repeated strokes with his fore-teeth,
which are better formed for gnawing than
biting ; and, being situated at the extremity of
the lever or jaw, they have not much force.
Bat the weasel bites cruelly with the whole
jaw, and, instead of letting go its hold, sucks
the blood from the wotmded part, so that the
rat is always killed.
A Night at Bat-Kxlliho.
CoHsiDEBxifa the immense number of rats
which iiarni an article of commerce with many
of the lower orders, whose business it is to
keep them for the purpose of rat matches, I
thought it necessary, for the fuU elucidation
of my subject, to visit the well-known public-
house in London, where, on a certain night in
the week, a pit is built up, and regulai- rat-
killing matches take place, and where those
who have sporting dogs, and are anxious to
test their qualities, can, after such matches are
finished, purchase half a dozen or a dozen rats
for them to practise upon, and judge for them-
selves of their dogs' " performances."
To quote the wonls printed on the pro-
prietor's card, " he is always at his old house
at home, as usual, to discuss the zakcy
generally."
I arrived at about eight o'clock at the tavern
where the performances were to take place. I
was too early, but there was plenty to occupy
my leisure in looking at the curious t^ce.ne
aroimd me, and taking notes of the habits
and conversation of the customers who were
flocking in.
The front of the long bar was crowded with
men of every grade of society, all smoking,
drinking, and talking about dogs. Many of
them had brought with them Uieir " fancy "
animals, so that a kind of *' canine exhibition"
was going on ; some carried under their arm
small bull-dogs, whose fiat pink noses rubbed
against my ann as I passed ; others had Skye-
terriers, curled up like balls of hair, and
sleeping like children, as they were nuised by
their owners. Tho only animals that seemed
awake, and under continual excitement, were
the little brown English terriers, who, despite
the neat black leathern collxu^ by which they
were held, struggled to get loose, as if thoy
smelt the rats in the room above, and were
impatient to begin the fray.
There is a business-like look about this
tavern which at once lets you into tho cha-
racter of the person who owns it. Tho drink-
ing seems to have been a secondary notion in
its formation, for it is a low-roofed room ^^ith-
out any of those adornments which are now
generally considered so necessary to render a
public-house attractive. The tubs \^ere the
spirits arc kept are blistered with the heat of
the gas, and so dirty that the once brilliant gilt
hoops are now quite black.
Sleeping on an old hall-chair lay an enor-
mous white bulldog, ** a great beauty," as X
was informed, with a head as round and
smooth as a clenched boxing-glove, and seem-
ingly too large for the body. Its forehead
appeared to protrude in a manner significant
of water on the bram, and almost overhung
the short nose, through which the animal
breathed heavily. When this dog, which was
the admiration of all beholders, rose up, its
legs were as bowed as a tailor's, leaving a
peculiar pear-shaped opening between them,
which, I was informed, was one of its points
of beauty. It was a white dog, with a sore look,
fh>m its being peculiarly pixik round the eyes,
nose, and inde^ at all the edges of its body.
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
On the other side of the fire-place was a
whito huU-tcrricr dog, with n black patch over
the eye, whidi gave him rather a disreputable
look. This animal was watching the move-
ments of the customers in front, and occa-
sionally, when the entrance-door was swung
back, would give a growl of iuquiiy as to what
the fresh-comer wanted. The proprietor was
kind enough to inform me, as he patted this
animal's ribs, wliioh showed like the hoops on
a butter-firkin, that he considered there hod
been a " little of the greyhound in some of
his back generations."
About the walls were hung clusters of black
leather collars, adorned with brass rings and
clasps, and pre-eminent was a silver dog-col-
lar, which, from the conversation of those
about me, I learnt was to be the prize in a
nit-match to be •' killed for" in a fortnight's
time.
As the visitors poured in, they, at the re-
quest of the proprietor *' not to block up the
baiV* took their seats in the parloiur, and, ac-
companied by a waiter, who kept shoutinjr,
•* Give your orders, gentlemen," I entered the
room.
I found that, like the bar, no pains had been
taken to rentier the room attractive to the
customers, for, with tlie exception of tlie sport-
ing pictures hung against the dingy paper, it
was devoid of all adornment Over the fire-
place were squore glazed boxes, in which were
the stulled forms of dogs famous in their day.
1^-cininent among the prints was that repre-
senting the •♦ Wonder" Tiny, " five pounds and
a half in weight," as he appeared killing UOO
rats. ^ This engraving had a singular look,
from its liaving been printed upon a silk
liandkerchief. Tiny had been a great fa-
vourite with the proprietor, and used to wear
a lady's bracelet as a collar.
Among the stuffed heads was one of a white
bull-dog, with tremendous glass eyes sticking
out, as if it had died of strangidation. Tlic
proprietor's son was kind chough to explain
to me the qualities that liad once belonged to
this favourite. " They've spoilt her in stuffing,
sir," he said ; **made her so short in the head ;
but she was the wonder of her day. There
wasn't a dog in England as would come nigh
her. Tliere's her daughter," he added, point-
ing to onotlier head, something like that of a
seal, *' but she wasn't reckoned half as hand-
some as her mother, though she was very
much admired in her time.
•* That there is a dog," he continued, point-
ing to one represented with a rat in its mouth,
" it was as good as any in England, though
it's so small. I've seen her kill a dozen rats
almost as big as herself, though they killed
her at last; for sewer-rats are dreadful for
giving dogs canker in the mouth, and she
wore hers^ out with continually killing them,
though we always rinsed her mouth out well
with peppermint and water while she were at
work. When rats bite they we pisonoos, and
an ulcer is formed, which we are obleeged to
lance ; that's what killed her."
The company assembled in ** the parlour"
consisted of sporting men, or those who, fr«.iii
curiosity, had come to witness what a i*nt-
match was like. Seated at the same table,
talking together, were those dressed in the
coBtermonger's suit of corduroy, soldiers with
their uniforms carelessly unbuttoned, coacli-
men in their liver}*, and tradesmen who liad
slipped on their evening frock-coats, and nm
out from the shop to see the sport.
The dogs belonging to the company were
standing on the different tables, or tied to the
legs of the forms, or sleeping in their ownrr.«»'
arms, and were in turn minutely criticised —
their limbs being stretched out as if they weio
being felt for fractures, and their mouths looked
into, as if a dentist were examining their teeth.
Nearly all tlie little animals were marked Yfi{\\
scars from bites. " Pity to bring him up to
rat-killing," said one, who had been admiring
a fierce-looking bull-terrier, olthough he ditl
not mention at the same time what hno in life
the little animal ought to pui-sue.
At another table ono man was declaring'
that his pet animal was the exact imago of the
celebrated rat-killing dog " Billy," at the sanu;
time pointing to the picture against the wall
of that famous animal, " as he performed his
wonderful feat of killing &00 rats in five
minutes and a half."
There were amongst the >'isitors some
French gentlemen, who had cridently wit-
nessed nothing of the kind before ; and whilst
they endeavomred to drink their hc»t gin and
water, Uiey made their interpreter translate
to them the contents of a large placard hung
upon a hatpeg, and headed —
" Every Man has nis Fajicy.
RATTING SPORTS IN REALITY."
About nine o'clock the proprietor took the
chair in the parlour, at the same time giving
the order to " shut up the shutters in the
room above, and light up the pit." This an-
nouncement seemed to rouse the spirits of the
impatient assembly, and oven the dogs tied to
the legs of the tables ran out to tlie length of
their leathern thongs, and their tails curled
like eels, as if they understood the meaning of
the words.
." "VMiy, that's the little champion, ' said the
proprietor, patting a dog with thighs like a
grasshopper, and whose mouth opened back
to its ears. " Well, it w a beauty 1 I wish I
could gammon you to take a 'fiver' for it."
Then looking round the room, he added,
''Well, gents, I'm glad to see you look so
comfortable."
The performances of the evening were some-
what hmrried on by the entering of a young
gentleman, whom the waiters called " Cap'nn."
♦• Now, Jem, when is this match coming oti?"
the CapUin asked impatiently; and despite
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON FOOB.
the assurance that they were getting ready, he
ihreatened to leave the place if kept waiting
much longer. This yonng officer seemed to
lic a great ** fancier** of dogs, for be made the
Duiid of the room, handling each animal in
its turn, feeling and squeezing its feet, and
scrutinising its eyes and limbs with such mf-
nuteric^s, tliat the French gentlemen were
forced to inquire who he was.
There was no announcement that the room
aboTe was ready, though everybody seemed
to understand it; for all rose at once, and
mounting the broad wooden staircase, which
led to what was once the ^drawing-room,'*
dropped their abillings into the hand of the
proprietor, and entered the rat-killing apart-
ment.
■^ The pit,** as it is called, consists of a small
circus, some six feet in diameter. It is about
as large as a centre flower-bed, and is fitted
with a high wooden rim that reaches to elbow
height OTer it the branches of a gas lamp
are arranged, which Hght up the white painted
floor, and every part of the little arena. On
one side of the room is a recess, which the
proprietor calU his ** private box," and this
apartment the Captain and hia friend soon
took possession of, whilst the audience gene-
rally clambered upon the tables and forms, or
hung over the sides of the pit itself.
All the little dogs which the visitors had
brought up with them were now squalling and
barlong, and straggling in their masters' arms,
as if they were thoroughly acquainted with
the uses of the pit; and when a rusty wire
cage of rats, filled wUh the dark moving mass,
was brought forward, the noise of the dogs
was so great that the proprietor was obliged to
shout out — ** Now, you that have dogs do
make *em shut up.**
The Captain was the first to jump into the
pit A man wanted to sell him a bull-temer,
spotted like a fkncy rabbit, and a dozen of
rats was the consequent order.
The Captain preferred ptJIing the rata out
of the cage hiznself, laying hold of them by
their tails and jerking them into the arena.
He was cautioned by one of the men not. to
let them bite him, for '* believe me," were the
words, •• you'll never forget, Cap'an ; these 'ere
are none of the cleanest.''
Whilst the rats were being counted out,
some of those that had been taken from the
cage ran about the painted floor and cHmbed
up the young officer's legs, making him shake
them off and exclaim, ** Get out, you varmint ! "
whilst others of the ugly Ut^e ftwinmU gat
opon their hind legs, cleaning their fkces with
their paws.
When the dog in question was brought
forth and shown the dozen rats, he grew ex-
cited, and stretched himself in his owner^s
mns, whilst an the other animals joined in
a flill chorus of whining.
** Chuck him in," said the Crataio, and over
vent the dog ; and in a second the rats were
running round the circus, i)r trying to liide
themselves between the small opouiugs in the
boards round the pit.
Although tho proprietor of the dog cudea-
voured to speak up for it, by declaring **it was
a good 'un, and a very pretty performer," still
it was evidently not worth much in a rat -kill-
ing sense ; and if it had not been for his
" second," who beat the sides of the pit with
his hand, and shouted " Hi ! hi 1 at 'em ! " iu
a most bewildering manner, we doubt if tho
terrier would not have preferred leaving tho
rats to themselves, to eigoy their lives. Somo
of the rats, when the dog advanced towards
them, sprang up in his face, making him draw
back with astonishment Others, as he bit
them, curled round in his mouth and fastened
on his nose, so that he had to carry them as a
cat does its kittens. It also required many
shouts of" Drop it— dead 'un," before ho would
leave those he had killed.
We cannot say whether the dog was event-
ually bought ; but from its owner's exclaiming,
in a kind of apologetic tone, " Why, he never
saw a rat belbre m all his life,** wo fancy no
deahnga took place.
The Captain seemed anxious to see as much
sport as ho cotdd, for he frequently asked
those who carried dogs in their amis whether
" his Utile 'un would kill," and appeared sorry
when such answers were given as — " My dog's
mouth's a little out of order, Cap'an," or ** Tve
only tried him at very small 'uns."
One little dog was put in the pit to amuse
himself with the dead bodies, tie seized hold
of one almost as big as himself, shook it
furiously till the head thumped the floor like
a drumstick, making those around shout with
laughter, and causmg one man to exclaim,
*' He's a good 'un at shaking heads and tails,
ain't he?"
Preparations now began for the grand mateh
of the evening, in which fifty rats were to be
killed. The ** dead 'uns'' were gathered up by
their taUs and flung into the comer. The
floor was swept, and a big flat basket produced,
like those in which chickens are brought to
market, and under whose iron wire top could
be seen small mounds of closely packed rats.
This match seemed to be between the pro-
prietor and his son, and the slake to be gained
was only a bottle of Lemonade, of which the
father stipulated he should have first drink.
It was strange to observe the daring manner
in which the lad introduced his hand into the
rat cage, sometimes keeping it there for more
than a minute at a time, as he fumbled about
and stirred up wiUi his fingers the living mass,
picking out, aa he had been requested, " only
the big 'uns."
When the fifty animals had been flung into
the pit, they gathered themselves together into
a mound which reached one-third up the sides,
and wliich reminded one of the heap of hair-
sweepings in a barber's shop after a heavy
day's cutting. These were all sewer and water-
8
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
ditch rats, and the smell that rose from them
was like that from a hot drain.
The Captain amused himself hy flicking at
them with his pocket handkerchief, and offer-
ing them the lighted end of his cigar, which
tlio little creatures tamely snuffed at, and drew
back from, as they singed their noses.
It was also a favourite amusement to blow on
the mound of rats, for they seemed to dislike
the cold wind, which sent them fluttering
about like so many feathers; indeed, whilst
the match was going on, whenever the little
animals collected together, and formed a barri-
cade as it were to the dog, ^e cry of ** Blow on
fem ! blow on 'cm ! " was given by the spectators,
and the dog's second puffed at them as if ex-
tinguishing a fire, when they would dait off
like so many sparks.
The company was kept waiting so long for
the matx'h to begin that the impatient Captain
again threatened to leave the house, and was
only quieted by the proprietor's reply of " My
dear friend, be easy, the boy's on Uie stairs
\\ith the dog;" and true enough we shortly
heard a wheezing and a screaming in the pass-
age witliout, as iif some strong-winded ammal
were being strangled, and presently a boy
entered, carrj-ing in his arms a bull-terrier in
a perfect fit of excitement, foaming at the
mouth and stretching its neck forward, so that
the collar which held it back seemed to be
cutting its tliroat in two.
The animal was nearly mad witli rage —
scratching and struggling to get loose. ** Lay
hold a little closer up to the head or hell turn
round and nip yer," said the proprietor to his
son.
Whilst the gasping dog was fastened up in a
comer to writhe its impatience away, the land-
lord made inquiries for a stop-watch, and also
for an umpire to decide, as he added, *' whether
the rats were dead or alive when they're
• killed,' as Paddy says."
When all the arrangements had been made
the " second" and the dog jumped into the
pit, and after *' lotting him see 'em a bit,"
the terrier was let loose.
The moment the dog was ** free," he be-
came quiet in a most business-like manner,
and rushed at the rats, burying his nose in
the mound till he brought out one in his
mouth. In a short time a dozen rats with
wetted necks were lying bleeding on the floor,
and the white paint of the pit became grained
with blood.
In a little time the terrier had a rat hang-
ing to his nose, which, despite his tossing,
still held on. He dashed np against the
sides, leaving a patch of blood as if a straw-
berry had been smashed there.
"He doesn't squeal, that's one good thing,"
said one of the lookers-on.
As the rats fell on their sides after a bite
they were collected together in the centre,
where they lay quivering in their death-
gasps 1
''Hi, Butcher I hi. Butcher!" shouted the
second, '* ^^ood dog ! bur-r-r-r-r-h ! " and he
beat the sides of the pit like a drum till tlie
dog flew about with new life.
"Dead 'unl drop it I" he cried, when the
teirier " nosed** a rat kicking on its side, as it
slowly expired of its broken neck.
" Time!'* said the proprietor, when four of
the eight minutes had expired, and the dog
was caught up and held panting, his neck
stretched out like a seix>ent's, staring intently
at the rats which stall kept crawling about.
The poor little wretches in this brief interval,
as if forgetting their danger, a^ain commenced
cleaning themselves, some nibbling the ends
of their tails, others hopping about, going now
to the legs of the lad in the pit, and sniffing
at his trousers, or, strange to say, advancing,
smelling, to within a few paces of their enemy
the dog.
The dog lost the match, and the proprietor,
we presume, honourably paid the bottle of
lemonade to his son. But he was evidently
displeased with the dog's behaviour, for he
said, " He won't do for me — he's not one of
my sort! Here, Jim, tell Mr. O. he may
have him if he likes; I won't give him house
room."
A plentiful shower of halfpence was thrown
into the pit as a reward for the second who
had backed the dog.
A slight pause now took place in the pro-
ceedings, during which the landlord requested
that the gentlemen *' would give their minds
up to drinking ; you know the love I have for
you," he added jocularly, " and that I don't
care for any of you ; " whilst the waiter ac-
companied the invitation with a cry of <^ Give
your orders, gentlemen," and the lad with the
rats asked if ** any other gentleman would
like any rats."
Several other dogs were tried, and amongst
them one who, from the size of his stomach,
had evidently been accustomed to large din-
ners, and looked upon rat-killing as a sport
and not as a business. The appearance of
this fat animal was greeted with remarks such
as " Why don't you feed your dog ?" and " You
shouldn't give him more than Ave meals a-
day."
Another impatient bull-terrier was thrown
into the midst of a dozen rats. He did his
duty so well, tliat the admiration of the spec-
tators was focussed upon him.
" Ah," said one, " he'd do better at a him-
dred than twelve;" whilst another obsen-ed,
" Rat-killing's his game, I can see ; " while the
landlord himself said, ** He's a very pretty
creetur*, and I'd back him to Idll against any-
body's dog at eight and a half or nine.''
The Captain was so startled with this ter-
rier's " cleverness," that he vowed that if she
could kill fifteen in a minute " he'd give a
hundred guineas for her."'
It was nearly twelve o'clock before the even-
ing's performance concliided« Several of the
LONDON LABOUR AND TBE LONDON POOR.
9
ipecUtors tried their dogs npon two or three
nts, either the biggest or the smallest that
coidd be found : and many offers as to what
** he wanted for the dog," and many inquiries
as to " who was its fkther," were made before
the company broke up.
At last the landlord, finding that no " gen-
tleman would like a few rats," and that his
exhortations to *' giye their minds up to
drmking" produced no further effect upon the
company, spoke the epilogue of the rat tra-
gedies in these words; —
^ Gentlemen, I give a very handsome solid
silver collar to be killed for next Tuesday.
»)pen to all the world, only they must be
nMTice dogs, or at least such as is not con.
ddered j^A^^ nomenons. We shall have plenty
of sport, gentlemen, and there will be loadjs
of rat'ldlUng. I hope to see all my kind
friends, not forgetting your dogs, likewise;
and may they be like the Irishman all oyer,
vho had good trouble to catch and kill 'em,
and took good care they didnt come to life
again. Gentlemen, there is a good parlour
down-stairs, where we meets for harmony and
entertainment.''
JiMMT Shaw.
The proprietor of one of the largest sporting
public-houses in London, who is celebrated
for the rat-matches which come off weekly
at his establishment, was kind enough to fa-
vour me with a few details as to the ^uali^
of those animals which are destroyed m his
pit His statement was certainly one of the
most curious that I have listened to, and it
was given to me with a readiness and a courtesy
of manner such as I have not often met with
during mj researches. The landlord himself
is known in pugilistic circles as one of the
most skilful boxers among what is termed the
" light weights.'
nis statement is curious, as a proof of the
Urge trade which is carried on in these ani-
mals, for it would seem that the men who
make a business of catching rats are not al-
ways employed as ** exterminators," for they
make a good living aa ** purveyors" for supply-
ing the demands of the sporting portion of
London.
*♦ The poor people," said the sporting land-
lord, *' who supply me with rats, are what yon
may call barn-door labouring poor, for tbey
are the most ignorant people I ever come near.
Really you would not believe people could live
iu such ignorance. Talk about Latin and
Greek, sir, why English is Latin to them—
in fact, I have a difficult to understand them
myself. When the harvest is got in, they go
hunting the hedges and ditches for rats.
Once l£e farmers had to pay 2d. a-head for
all rats caught on their grounds, and they
nailed them op against the walL But now that
the rat-ketchers can get 3if. each by bringing
the vermin np to town, the farmers don't pay
them anything for what they ketch, but merely
give them permission to hunt them in their
stacks and bams, so that they*no longer get
their 2d, in the cotmtiy, though they get their
3<2. in town.
"I have some twenty families depending
upon me. From Glavering, in Essex, I suppose
I have hundreds of thousands of rats sent to
me in wire cages fitted into baskets. From
Enfield I have a great, quantity, but the
ketchers don't get them all there, but travel
round the country for scores of miles, for you
see d</. a-head is money; besides, there are
some hberal farmers who will still give them
a halQ)cnny a-head into the bargain. Enfield
is a kmd of head-quarters for rat-ketchers.
" It's dangerous work, though, for you see
there is a wonderftd deal of difference in the
specie of rats. The bite of sewer or water-
ditch rats is veiy bad. The water and ditch
rat lives on filth, but your bam-rat is a plump
fellow, and he lives on the best of eveiything.
He's well off. There's as much difference
between the bam and sewer-rats as between a
brewer's horse and a costermonger's. Sewer-
rats are veiy bad for dogs, their coats is poi-
sonous.
*< Some of the rats that are brought to me
are caught in the warehouses in the City.
Wherever there is anything in the shape of
provisions, there you are sure to find Mr. Rat
an intruder. The ketchers are paid for ketch-
ing them in the warehouses, and then they are
sold to me as well, so the men must make a
good thing of it. Many of the more courageous
kind of warehousemen will take a pleasure in
hunting the rats themselves.
" I should think I buy in the course of the
year, on the average, from 300 to 700 rats
a- week." (Taking 000 as the weekly average,
this gives a yearly purchase of 26,000 live rats.)
" That's what I kill taking all the year roundi,
you see. Some first-class chaps will come
here in the day-time, and they'll try their dogs.
They'll say, * Jimmy, give the dog 100.' After
he's polished them off they'll say, perhaps,
* Hang it, give him another 100.' Bless you ! "
he added, in a kind of whisper, " Tve had noble
ladies and titled ladies come here to see the
sport— on the quiet, you know. When my wife
was here they would come regular, but now
she's away they don't come so often.
" The largest quantity of rats Pve bought
from one man was five guineas' worth, or
thirty-five dozen at 3^. a-head, and that's a load
for a horse. This man comes up fh>m Glaver-
ing in akind of cart, with a horse that's a regular
phenomena, for it ain't like a beast nor nothing.
I pays him a good deal of money at times, and
I'm sure I can't tell what he does with it ; but
they do tell me that he deals in old iron, and
goes buying it up, though he don't seem to
have much of a head-piece for that sort of
fancy neither.
*' During the harvest-time the rats run
scarcer you see, and the ketcher turns up rat*
10
LOm>OI9 LABOUR AND THE LONDOS POOR,
keiehing for harresi work. After the harvest
rata gets plentiful again.
** I've had as many as 2000 rats in tliis very
honse at one time. Theyll consome a sack of
barley-ineal a week, and the brutes, if yon
don't give 'em good stufi^ they'll eat one another,
hang 'em !
*' I'm the oldest canine fancier in London,
and I'm the first that started ratting ; in fact,
I know I'm the oldest caterer in rat-killing in
the metropolis. I began as a lad,«nd I had many
noble friends, and was as good a man then as
I am now. In fact, when I was seventeen or
eighteen years of age I was just like what my
boy is now. I used at that time to be a great
public charakter, and had many liberal fnends
— ^very liberal friends. I used to give them
rat sports, and I have kept to it ever since.
My boy can handle rats now just as I used to
then.
" Have I been bit by them f Aye, hundreds
of times. Now, some people will say, *ltub
yourself over with caraway and stuff, aiid
then rats won't bite you.' But I give you my
word and honour it's all nonsense, sir.
** As I said, I was the first in London to give
rat sports, and I've kept to it ever since. Bless
you, there's nothing tliat a rat won't bito
through. I've seen my lads standing in the pit
with the rats running about them, and if they
haven't taken the precaution to tie their
trousers round with a bit of string at the hot-
tom, they'd have as many as five or six rati
run up their trouser-legs. They'll deliberately
take off their clothes and pick them out from
thtir shirts, and bosoms, and lureeohes. Some
people is amused, and others is horror-struck.
People have asked them whether they ain't
rubbed? They'll say * Yes,' but that's as a
lark; 'cos, sometimes when my boy has been
taking the rats out of the cage, and somebody
has taken his attention o£t^ talking to him, he
has had a bite, and will turn to me with his
finger bleeding, and say, ^Yes, I'm rubbed,
ain't I, father? look here !'
**A rat's bite is very singular, it's a three-
cornered one, Uke a leech's, only deeper, of
course, and it will bleed for ever such a time.
My boys have sometimes had their fingers go
dreadfully bad from rat-bites, so that they turn
all black and putrid like— .aye, as black as the
horsc-hoir covering to my sofa. People have
said to me, * Y'ou ought to send the lad to the
hospital, and have his finger took off;' but
Tve always left it to the lads, and they've said,
* Oh, don't mind it^ father ; it'll get all right by
and by.' And so it has.
(« The best thing I ever found for a rat-bite
was the thick bottoms of porter casks put on as
a poultice. The only thing yon can do is to
poultice, and these porter bottoms is so power-
ful and draws so, that they'll actually take
thorns out of horses' hoo& and f^eet alter
steeplechosing.
*' In handling rats, it's nothing more in the
world but nerve that does it I should faint
now if a rat was to run up my breeches, but I
have known tlie time when I've been kivured
with 'em.
** I generally throw m^ dead rats away now ;
but two or three years smce my boys took the
idea of skinning them into their headin, and
they did about 800 of them, and their skins
was very promising. The boys was, after all,
obliged to give th^ away to a furrier, for my
wife didn't like the notion, and I said, * Throw
them away;' but the idea strikes me t<i be
something, and one tliat is lost sight of, f<.>r
the skins are warm and handsome-looking — a
beautiful grey.
*' There's nothing turns so quickly as dead
rats, so I am obleeged to have my duisimen
come round every Wednesday morning ; and
regularly enough they coll too, for they know
where there is a bob and a pot. I generally
prefers using the authorised dustmen. Uiongh
the others come sometimes — the filing dust-
men they call 'em— and if they're first, they has
the job.
" It strikes me, though, that to throw awcy
■o many valiuble skins is a good thing lost
sight of.
" The rats want a deal of watching, and a
deal of sorting. Now you can't put a sowor niul
a barn-rat together, it's like putting a Koos^liion
and a Turk under the some roof.
^ I can tell a bani-rat from a ship-rat or a,
sewer-rat in a minute, and I have to look over
my stock when they come in, or they'd ti(;ht to
the death. Thcro's six or seven ditl'c-rent
kinds of rats, and if we don't sort 'em tliey tear
one another to pieces. I think when I liave a
number of rats in the house, that I am a lucky
man if I don't find a dozen dead when I go up
to them in the morning ; and when I tell you
that at times — when I've wanted to make up
my number for a match — I've given iil». for
twenty rats, you may think I lose something
that way every year. Rats, even now, is occa-
sionally Of. o-dozen ; but that, I think, is most
inconsistent.
" If I had my will, I wouldn't allow sewer
rattmg, for the rats in the shores eats up a
great quantity of sewer filth and rubbish, and
is another specie of scavenger in their own
way."
After finishing his statement, the landlord
showed me some vexr curious specimens of
tame rats — some piebald, and others quite
white, with pink eyes, which he kept in cages
in his sitting-room. He took them out fr^m
their cages, and handled them without the
least fear, and even handled them rather
rudely, as he showedlne the peculiariUes of
their colours ; yet the little tame creatures did
not once attempt to bite him. Indeed, they
appeared to have lost the notion of regaining
their liberty, sod when near their cages
struggled to return to their nests.
In one of these boxes a black and a white
rat were confined together, and the proprietor,
pointing to them, remarked, ** I hope theyll
LONDON LABOUR AND THS LONDON POOR.
11
teeed, for thongh white rats is Tety searce,
only oennring in fact bj a ft^ak of nature, I
fiBkcj I shall be able, with time and trouble,
to bned 'em myself. The old English rat
is a tnuall jet-black rat ; but the first white rat
SI I heard of come oat of a bmial-gronnd. At
(Be time I bred rots very largely, but now I
leares that fancy to my boys, for I'Te as mnch
as I can do ccmtlnning to serre my worthy
patroDa.*^
Jack Black.
As I wished to obtain the best information
aboat rat and vermin destroying, I thought I
ecmld not do better now than- i^ly to that
eniocnt anthority *'the Queen's ratcatcher,"
sod accordingly I sought an interview with
Mr. " Jack " Black, whose hand - bills are
headed—** V.B. Bat and mole destroyer to
Her Migesty/'
I had already had a statement from the
ropj bug-destroyer relative to the habits and
means of exterminating those offensive vermin,
and I was desirous of pairing it with an account
of the personal experience of the Queen of
Eoglttkd's ratcatcher.
In the sporting world, and among his regular
cQstomen, the Queen's ratcatcher is better
known by the name of Jack Black. He enjoys
the reputation of being the most feaiiess
handler of rats of any man livmg, playing with
them—as one man expressed it to me^^* as if
they were so many blind Idttens."
The flzst time I ever saw Mr. Black was in
the streets of London, at the comer of Hart-
street, where he wai exhibiting the rapid effects
of his rat poascnr, by plsdng some of it in the
mouth of a living animal. He had a cart then
with juts painted on the panels, and at the
tailboard, where he stood lecturing, he had a
kind of stage rigged up, on which were cages
filled with rats, ud pills, and poison packages.
Here I saw him dip his hand into this cage
of rats and take out as many as he could hold,
a feat which generally caused on "oh!" of
wonder to escape firom the crowd, especially
when they observed that his hands were un-
bitten. Women more particulariy shuddered
whoa they beheld him place some half-dozen
of the dosty-looking brutes within his shirt next
Uialdn; and men swore the animals had been
tamed, as be let them run up his aims like
•qnirels, and the people gathered round
beheld them sitting on his shoulders cleaning
their iSaces with thor fhmt-paws, or rising up
en their bind legs like little kangaroos, and
Hoffioy about bis ean and cheeks.
But those who knew Ifr. Black better, were
vali aware that the animals he took up in his
hmd were ns wild as any of the rats in the
Kvers of Loodon, and that the only mystery
is the exhibition was that of a man having
eoBrsge enon^b to undertake the work.
I tflerwards visited Jaek Black at his house
ii Bsttenea. I had some diflleulty in dis-
covering his country residence, and was indebted
to a group of children gathered round and
staring at the bird-cage in the window of his
cottage for his address. Their exclamations
of delight at a grey parrot climbing with his
beak and claws about the zinc wires of his cage,
and the hopping of the little linnets there, in
the square lx>xes scarcely bigger than a brick,
made me glance up at the door to discover who
the bird-fancier was ; when painted on a bit of
zinc^ust large enough to fit the shaft of a
tax cart — I saw the words, ** J. Black, Rat De-
stroyer to Her Miyesty," surmounted by the
roy^ initials, V.B., together with the painting
of a white rat
Mr. Black was out " sparrer ketching,** as
his wife informed me, for he had an order for
three dozen, '* which was to be shot in a match "
at some tea-gardens close by.
>Vhen I called again Mr. Black had re-
turned, and I found him kneeling before a big,
rusty iron- wire cage, as large as a soa- chest,
and transferring the sparrows fh>m his bird-
catching apparatus to the more roomy prison.
He transacted a little business before I spoke
to him, for the boys about the door were ask-
ing, ** Can I have one for a penny, master?"
There is evidently a great art in handling
birds; for when Mr. Black held one, he took
hold of it by the T^ing^ ond tail, so that the
little creature seemed to be sitting ujjright
and had not a feather rumpled, while it
stretched out its neck and looked around it ;
the boys, on the contrary, first made them
flutter their feathers as rough as a hair brill,
and then half smothered them between tlieir
two hands, by holding them as if tliey wished
to keep tliem hot.
I was soon at home with Mr. Black. He
was a Tciy different man from what 1 had ex.
pected to meet, for there was an exprosbion of
kindhness in his countenance, a quality which
does not exactly ngrcc with one's preconcoived
notions of ratcatchers. His face had a strange
appearance, firom his rough, uncombed liair, be-
ing nearly grey, and his eyebrows and whiskers
black, so that he looked as if he wore powder.
Mr. Black informed me that the big iron-
wire cage, in wbich the sparrows were flutter-
ing about, had been constructed by him for rats,
and that it held over a thousand when full —
for rats are packed like cups, he said, one over
the other. ** But," he added, " business is bad
for rats, and it makes a splendid haver}' ; be-
sides, sparrers is tho rats of birds, sir, for if
you look at 'em in a cage they always huddles
up in a comer Uke rats in a pit, and they ore
a'most vermin in colour and habits, and eats
anything."
The ratcatchei^ pariour was more like a
shop than a family apartment In a box, with
iron bars before it, like a rabbit-hutch, was a
white ferret, twistmg its long thin body with a
sniLke-like motion up and down the length of
its prison, as restlessly as if it were arainiaturs
polar bear.
12
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
When Mr. Black called **PoUy " to Uie ferret,
it came to the bars and fixed its pink eyes on
him. A child lying on the floor poked its
fingers into the cage, hut Polly only smelt at
them, and, finding them not good to cat, went
away.
Mr. Black stufiti animals and birds, and
also catches fish for viTaria. Against the walls
were tlic furred and feathered remains of de-
parted favourites, each in its glazed box and
appropriate altitude. There was a famous
polecat — "a first-rater at rats" we were in-
formed. Here a ferret " that never was
eqiudled." This canary '* had earned pounds."
That linnet " was the wonder of its day." The
enormous pot-bellied carp, with the miniature
ruslics painted at the back of its case, was
caught in the Kegenfs Park waters.
** In another port of the room hang fishing-
lines, and u badger's skin, and lead-bobs and
curious eel-hooks — the latter as big as the
curls on the temples of a Spanish dancer, and
from hero Mr. Black took down a transparent,
looking fish, like a shp of parchment, and told
me that it was a frcsh-water smelt, and that
he caught it in the Thames — "the first he
ever heard of." Then he showed me a beetle
suspended to a piece of thread, like a big
npider to its web, and this he informed me
^vas the Thames beetle, ** which either live by
land or water."
"You ketcli 'em," continued Mr. Black,
*' when they are swimming on their backs,
wliich is their nature, and wlien they turns
over you finds 'em beautifully crossed and
marked."
liound the room were himg paper bags, like
tliose in which housewives keep their sweet
lierbs. " All of them there, sir, contain cured
fish for eating," Mr. Black explained to me.
*' I'm called down here the Battersea otter,"
he went on, *' fur I can go out at four in the
morning, and come home by eight with a
barrowful of freshwater fish. Nobody knows
liow I do it, because I never takes no nets or
lines with me. I assure them I ketcli 'em
with my hands, which I do, but they only
laughs incredorlous like. I knows the fishes'
hamts, and watches the tides. I sells fresh
fish — perch, roach, dace, gudgeon, and such-
like, and oven small jack, at threepence a
pound, or what they'll fetch ; and I've caught
near the Wandsworth * Black Sea,' as we
calls it, half a hundred weight sometimes,
and I never took less than my handkerchoy
full."
I was inclined — like the inhabitants of
Battersea — to be incredulous of the rat-
catcher's hand-fishing, until, under a promise
of secrecy, he confided his process to me, and
then not only was I perfectly con>-inced of its
truth, but startled that so simple a method
had never before been taken advantage of.
Later in the day Mr. Black became very
oommunicative. We sat chatting together in
his sanded bird shop, and he told me all his
misfortunes, and how bad luck had pressed
upon him, and driven him out of London.
" I was fool enough to take a pnblic-house
in Begent-street, sir," he said. *' My daughter
used to dress as the ' Ratketcher's Daughter,*
and serve behind the bar, and tliat did pretty
well for a time ; but it was a brewei-'s house^
and they ruined me."
The costume of the " ratketcher's daughter"
was shown to me by her mother. It was a
red velvet bodice, embroidered with silver
lace.
"With a muslin skirt, and her hair down
her back, she looked wery genteel," added the
parent
Mr. Black's chief complaint was that he
could not " make an appearance," for his
"uniform" — a beautiful green coat and red
waistcoat — wore pledged."
^Vlulst giving me his statement, Mr. Black,
in proof of his assertions of the biting powers
of rats, drew my attention to the leathern
breeches he wore, " as were given him twelve
years ago by Captain B ."
These were pierced in some places with the
teeth of the animals, and in others were
scratched and fringed like the washleather of
a street knife -seller.
His hands, too, and even his face, had scars
upon them from bites.
Mr. Black informed me that ho had given
up tobacco "since a haccident he met with from
a pipe. I was smoking a pipe," he said, " and
a friend of mine by chance jobbed it into my
mouth, and it went right through to the back
of ray palate, and I nearly died."
Here his wife added, " There's a hole there
to this day you could put your thimib into;
you never saw such a mouth."
^Ir. Black informed me in secret that he
had often, "unbeknown to his wife," tasted
what cooked rats were like, and he asserted
that they were as moist as rabbits, and quite as
nice.
"If they are shewer-rats," he continued,
" just chase them for two or three days before
you kill them, and they are as good as barn-
rats, I give you my word, sir."
Mr. Black's statement was as follows : —
" I should think I've been at ratting a'most
for five-and-thirty year; indeed, I may say
from my childhood, for I've kept at it a'most
all my life. Pve been dead near three times
from bites — as near as a toucher. I once had
the teeth of a rat brei^ in my finger, which
was dreadful bad, and swole, and putrifled, bo
that I had to have the broken bits pulled out
with tweezers. When the bite is a bad one,
it festers and forms a hard core in the ulcer,
which is very painftil, and throbs very much
indeed ; and after that core comes away, un-
less you cleans 'em out well, the sores, even
after they seemed to be healed, break out over
and over again, and never cure perfectly.
This core is as big as a boiled fish's eye, and
as hard as a Btooe. I generally cuts the bite
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
10
at dean witb a lancet, and squcege the liu-
lour well from it, and that's the only way to
ire it thorough — as you see my hands is all
>\'ei«d with scars from bites.
"The worst bite I eyer had was at the
lanor House. Homsey, kept by Mr. Bumell.
rne day when I was there, he had some rats
et looso, and he asked me to ketch 'em for
lim. as they was wanted for a match tliat was
uming on that afternoon. I had picked up
. lot — indeed, I had one in each hand, and
nother again my knee, when I happened to
nme to a sheaf of straw, which I turned over,
jid there was a rat there. I couldn't lay hold
in him 'cause my hands was full, and as I
looped down he ran up the sleeve of my coat,
iDd bit me on the muscle of the arm. I shall
lever forget it. It turned me all of a sudden,
md made me feel numb. In less than half-
in-hour I was took so bad I was obleeged tb
be sent home, and I had to get some one to
Jrive my cart for me. It> was terrible to see
the blood that came from me — I bled awfuL
Bomell seeing me go so queer, says, ' Here,
Jack, take some brandy, you look so awful
bad.' The arm swole, and went as heavy as a
ton weight pretty well, so that I couldn't even
lift it, and so painful I couldn't bear my wife
to fennent it. I was kept in bed for two
months through that bite at Bumell's. I was
BO weak I couldn't stand, and I was dreadful
feverisb— all warmth like. I knew I was going
to die, 'cause I remember the doctor coming
md opemng my eyes, to see if I was still
alive.
*• I've been bitten nearly everywhere, even
vhere I can't name to you, sir, and right
through mj thumb naiJ too, which, as you see,
always has a split in it, though it's years since
[ waa wounded. I suffered as much from that
bite on my thumb as anything. It went right
ap to my ear. I felt the pain in both places
St once — a regular twinge, like touching the
nerve of a tooth. The thumb went black, and
I was told I ought to have it off; but I knew
a young chap at the Middlesex Hospital who
VMnt out of his time, and he said, ' No, I
vooldn't. Jack;' and no more I did ; and he
used to strap it up for me. But the worst of
it was, I had a job at Camden Town one afber-
Qoon after he had dressed the wound, and I
^t another bite lower down on the same
Lhnmb, and that flung me down on my bed,
md there I stopped, I should think, six
M'-eeks.
" I was bit bad, too, in Edwards-street,
Hampst^ad-road ; and that time I was sick
lear three months, and close upon dying.
Rrhether it was the poison of the bite, or the
medicine the doctor give me, I can't say ; but
ha flesh seemed to swell up like a bladder —
negular blowed like. After idl, I think I cured
nyaelf by cheating the doctor, as they calls it ;
br instead of tjUdng the medicine, I used to go
o Hr. 's house in Albany-street (the pub-
ican), and he'd say, 'What'llyer have, Jack?'
and I used to take a glass of stout, and that
seemed to give me strength to overcome the
pison of the bite, for I began to pick up as
soon as I left off doctor's stutH
" When a rat's bite touches the bone, it
mokes you faint in a minute, and it bleeds
dreadful — ah, most terrible — just as if you
had been stuck with a penknife. You couldn't
believe the quantity of blood that come away,
sir.
** The fii-st rats I caught was when I was
about nine years of age. I ketched them at
Mr. Strickland's, a large cow-keeper, in Little
Albany-street, Kogent's-park. At that time it
was all Aelds and meaders in them parts, and
I recollect there was a big orchard on one
side of the sheds. 1 was only doing it fur a
game, and tliere was lots of ladies and gents
looking on, and wondering at seeing mo
taking the rats out from under a heap of old
bricks and wood, where they had collecte«l
theirselves. I had a little dog — a little red
'un it was, who was well known through the
fancy — and I wanted the rats for to test my
dog with, I being a lad what was fond of the
spoi-t.
*• I wasn't afraid to handle rats even then ;
it seemed to come nat'ral to me. I verj' soon
had some in my pocket, and some in my
hands, carrring them away us fast as I could,
and putting them into my wire cage. You see,
the rats began to run as soon as we shifted
them bricks, and I had to scramble for them.
Many of them bit me, and, to tell you the
truth, I didn't know the bites were so many,
or I dare say I shouldn't have been so ven-
turesome OS I was.
•* After that I bought some foiTuts — four of
them — of a man of the name of Butler, what
was in the rat-ketching hne, and afterwards
went out to Jomaicer, to kill rats there. I was
getting on to ten years of age then, and I was,
I think, the first that regularly began hunting
rats to storminate them ; for all those before
me used to do it with drugs, and perhaps
never handled rats in tlieir lives.
" With my ferruts I at first used to go out
hunting rats round by the ponds in Begent's-
park, and the ditches, and in the cow-sheds
roundabout. People never paid me for ketch-
ing, though, maybe, if they was very much
infested, they might give me a trifle; but I
used to make my money by selling the rats to
gents as was fond of sport, and wanted them
for their little dogs.
" I kept to this till I was thirteen or four-
teen year of age, always using the ferruts;
and I bred from them, too, — indeed, I've still
got the * strain' (breed) of them same ferruts
by me now. I've sold them ferruts about
everywhere; to Jim Buni I've sold some of
the strain; and to Mr. Anderson, the pro-
vision-merchant ; and to a man that went to
Irelind. Indeed, that strain of ferruts has
gone nearly all over the world.
" I never lost a ferrut out ratting. I al-
14
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
M
ways let them loose, and put a bell on mine-
arranged in a peculiar manner, which is a
Kecret — ond I then puts him into the main
run of the rata, and lets him go to work.
]iut tlipj- must be femits tliafs well trained
fur working dwellings, or you'll lose tliem as
Hafe as death. Pve had 'em go away two
houses olT, and oome back to mc. My femits
is very tame, and so well trained, that I'd put
them into a house and guarantee that they'd
come hack to me. In Grosvenor-strect I was
clearing once, and the femits went next door,
niid nearly cleared the house — which is the
lionourable Mrs. F 's — before they came
hack to me.
" 1- omits are very dangerous to handle if not
well trained. They are very savage, and will
attack a man or a child as well as a rat. It
was well known at Mr. Hamilton's at Ilamp-
stead — it's years ago this is — there was a
ferrut that got loose what killed a child, and
was found sucking it The bite of 'em is ver}-
dangerous — not so pisonous as a rat's — but
very painful; and when the little tilings is
hungry they'll attack anythink. I've seen two
of them kill a cat, and then they'll suck the
blood till tliey fills theirsclvcs, after which
they'll fall oflf like leeches.
"The weasel and the stoat arc, I think,
more dangerous than the ferrut in their bite.
I had a stoat once, which I caught when out
ratting at Ilampstoad for Mr. Cunningham,
tho butcher, and it hit one of my dogs —
Black Bess by name, the truest bitch in the
world, sir — in tho mouth, and she died three
days arterwards at the Boll at Kilbiun. I
was along with Coptain K , who'd come
(•ut to see the sport, and whilst we were al
dinner, and the poor bitch Ijing under my
chair, my boy says, f?ays he, * Father, Black
Bess is d^-ing;' and had scarce spoke the
speech when she wns dead. It was all
through the bite of that stoat, for I opened
the wound in the lip, and it was all swolo, and
dreadful ulcerated, and all down the thnat it
was inflamed most shocking, and so was the
lunys quite red and liory. She was h<jt with
work when she got the bite, and perhaps tliat
made her take the pison quicker.
" To give you a proof, sir, of the savage
nature of tho femits, I was one night at
Jimmy Show's, where there was a match to
come off with rats, which the feiTut was to
kill; and young Bob Shaw (Jun's son) was
holding the t'errut up to his mouth and giving
it spittle, whon the animal seized him by the
lip, and bit it right through, and hung on as
tight 8s a vice, "which shows the spitefuluess
<if the ferrut, and how it will ottack the
liuman frame. Young Shaw still hold the
ferrut in his hand whilst it was fastened to his
lip. and he was saying, • Oh, oh ! ' in pain. You
see, I think Jim kept it very hard to make it
kill the rats better. There was some noble-
men there, and also Mr. George, of Kensal
New-town, was there, wluch is one of the
largest dog-fanciers wc have. To make tlie
ferrut leave go of young Shaw, they bit its
feet and tail, and it wouldn't, 'cos — as I could
have told 'em — it only made it bite all the
more. At last Mr. George, says he to me,
' For God's sake. Jack, take the ferrut oflL'
I didn't like to intrude myself upi^n the com-
pany before, not being in my own ]>lace, and
I didn't know how Jimmy would take it. Every-
body in the .room was at a standstill, quite
horrerfied, and Jimmy himself was in a driead-
ful way for his boy. I went up, and quietly
forced my thumb into Ids mouth and loosed
him, and he killed a dozen rats aftcT that.
They all said, * Bravo, JacJs, you are a plucked
one ; ' and the little chap said, * Well, Jock,
I didn't like to holla, but it was dreadful
painful.' His lip swf>le up directly as big as a
nigger's, and the company made a collectixm
for the lad of some dozen sliillings. This
shows that, although a fciTut will kill a rat,
yet, hke the rat, it is always wicious, and will
attack the human fnune.
" When I was abont fifteen, sir, I turned to
bird-fancying. I was verj- fond of the sombre
linnet. I was very succi^ssful in raising them,
and sold them for a deal of money. I've got
the strain of them by me now. I've ris tliem
from some I purchased from a person in the
Coal-yard, Drury-lane. I give him 2/. for one
of the periwinkle strain, hut afterwards I
heard of a person with, as I thought, a better
strain — Lawson of Holloway — and I went
and give him SOs. for a bird. I then ris
them. I used to go nnd ketch the nestlings
off the common, and ris Hiem under the old
trained birds.
i.. " Originally linnets was taught to sing by a
bird-organ — ^principally among the weavers,
years ago,— but I used to make the old birds
teach tlie young ones. I used to molt them
off in the dark, by kivering the cages up, and
then they'd learn from hearing the old ones
singing, and would take the song. If any
did not sing perfectly I used to sell 'em as
cast-offs.
** Tho linnet's is a beautiful song. There
are four-and-twenty changes in a linnet's song.
It's one of the beau ti fullest song-bu'ds we've
got. It sings * toys,' as we call them ; that is,
it makes sounds which we distinguish in the
fancy as the * toUork eeke coke quake le
wheet; single eke eke quake wheels, or eek cck
quake chowls ; eege pipe chowl : laugh; eege
poy chowls ; rattle ; pipe ; fenv ; pugh and poy.'
" This seems like Greek t<.) you, sir, but it's
the tunes we use in the fanty. What we terms
*fear' is a sound like fear, as if they wa<
frightened ; * laugh ' is a kind of shake, nearly
the same as tlie * rattle.'
" I know the sounds of all the English
birds, and what tliey say. I could tell you
about the nightingale, the blac-k cap, heJp:c
warbler, garden wai-bler, petty chat, red start
— a beautifhl song-bird — the willow wren —
little warblers they are — linnets, or any of
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
15
for X liaT6 got their sonnds in my ear
ind my mouth.'*
As if to prove Uiis, he drew from a slde-
poekei a coaple of tin bird-whisUes, which
were attached by a string to a button-hole.
He instantly began to imitate the different
birds, commencing with their call, and then
expbuning how, when answered to in snch a
way, they gave another note, and how, if still
imonded to, they uttered a diiferent sound.
ID. fact, he gave me the whole of the con-
Tieiiation he usually cairied on with the
diildrent idnds of birds, each one being as it
wer« in a different language. He also showed
me how he aUnred them to him, when they
were in the air singing in the distance, and
he did this by giving their entire song. His
cheeks and throat seemed to be in constant
motion as he filled the room with his loud
imitations of the lark, and so closely did he
resemble the notes of the bird, that it was no
longer any wonder how the Uttle things could
be deceived.
In the same manner he illustrated the songs
of the nightingale, and so many birds, that I
did not recognise the names of some of them.
He knew ^ their habits as well as notes, and
rested to me the peculiar chirp they make on
rising from the ground, as well as the sound
by which he distinguishes that it is ** uneasy
with curiosity," or ihafc it has settled on a tree.
Indeed, he appeared to be acquainted with all
the chirps which distinguished , any action in
the bird up to the point when, as he told me,
it ** circles about, and then faJls like a stone
to the ground with its pitch."
*' The nightingale,*^ he continued, *< is a
beautiful song-bird. Th^re plucky birds, too,
and they hear a call and answer to anybody ;
and when taken in April they're plucked enough
to sing as soon as put in a cage. I can ketch
a nightingale in less than five minutes; as
soon as he calls,I cells to him with my mouth,
snd hell answer me (both by night or day),
either from a spinny (a little copse), a dell,
or a wood, wherever he may be. I make my
scrapes, (that is, dear away the dirt), set my
traps, and catch 'em almost before r.ve tried
my lock. Tve ketched sometimes thirty in a
d^, for although people have got a notion
that nightingales is scarce, still those who can
distinguish their song in the daytime know
that Uiey are plentiful enough — almost like
the lark. You see persons fancy that them
nightingales as sings at night is the only ones
linng. but itTs wrong, for many on them only
■iogH in the day.
** Yon see it was when I was about
fighteen, I was beginning to get such a judge
i^nt birds, sir. I sold to a butcher, of the
same of Jackson, the first young un that I
iD»ie money out of — for two pounds it was —
and I've sold loads of 'em since for thirty
thillings or two pounds each, and I've got
tbe strain by me now. I've aUo got by me
BOW the bird that won the match at Mr. Lock-
wood's in Drury-lane, and won the return
match at my own place in High -street, Mara-
bun. It was in the presence of all tlie fancy.
He's moulted pied (pie-bald) since, and gone
a little white on the head and the back. We
only sang for two pounds a side — it wasn't a
great deal of money. In our matches we sing
by both gas and daylight He was a master-
baker I sang against, but I forget his name.
They do call him * Holy Face," but that's a
nick-name, because he's very much pock-
marked. I wouldn't sell that bird at all for
anythink ; I've been offered ten pounds for it.
Captain E put ten sovereigns down on
tlie counter for him, and I wouldn't pick 'em
up, for I've sold lots of his strain for a pound
each.
'• \Vhon I foimd I was a master of the
birds, then I turned to my rat business again.
I had a little rat dog — a black tan terrier of
the name of Billy — which was the greatest
stock dog in London of that day. He is the
father of the greatest portion of the small
block tan dogs in London now, which Mr.
Isaac, the bird-fancier in Princes-street, pur-
chased one of the strain for six or seven
pounds; which Jimmy Massey afterwards
purchased another of the strain, for a monkey,
a bottle of wine, and throe pounds. That was
the rummest bargain I over marie.
" I've ris and trained monkoys by shoals.
Some of mine is about now in shows ex-
hibiting ; one in particular — Jimmy.
" One of the strain of this little black tan
dog would draw a badger twelve or fourteen
lbs. to his six lbs., which was done for a
wager, 'cos it was thought the badger had his
teeth drawn, but ho hadn't, as was proved by
his biting Mr. P from Birmingham, for he
took a piece clean out of his trousers, which
was pretty good proof, and astonished them
all in the room.
'* I've been offered a sovereign a-pound for
some of my little terriers, but it wouldn't pay
me at that price, for they weren't heavier than
two or three pounds. 1 once sold one of the
dogs, of this same strain, for fourteen pounds,
to the Austrian Ambassador. Mrs. H
tlie banker's lady, wished to get my strain of
terriers, and she give me five pounds for the
use of him ; in fact, my terrier dog was kno^^-n
to aU the London fancy. * As rat-killing <logs,
there's no eqiuil to that strain of black tan
terriers.
" It's fifteen year ago since I first worked
for Goverment. I found that the parks was
much infested with rats, which had undor-
minded the bridges and gnawed the drains,
and I marie application to Mr. Westlcy, who
was superintendent of the park, and ho spoke
of it, and then it was wrote to me that I was
to fulfil the siterwation, and I was to have
six pounds a-year. But after that it was
altered, and I was to have so much ahead,
which is tlireepence. After that, Newton,
what was a wamdnt destroyer to her Majesty,
Xo. I VI.
IQ
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
dj-ing, I wrote in to the Board of Hordnance,
when they appointed me to each statioii in
London— that was, to RegenLsey-park- bar-
racks, to the Knightjsbridge and Portland-
han-acks, and to all tlie oOicr barracks in the
metropolis. I've got tlie letter now by me, in
which they says * Uiey is proud to appint me.'
'* I've taken thirty-two rats out of one hole
in the islands in Regentsey-park, and found in
it fish, birds, and loads of eggs — duck-eggs,
and every kind.
•* It must be fourteen year since I first went
about the streets exhibiting with rats. I be-
gan with a cart and a'most a donkey; for
it was a pony scarce bigger; but I've had
three or four big horses since that, and ask
anybody, and they'll tell you I'm noted for my
cattle. I thought that by having a kind of
costume, and the rats painted on tlie cart, and
going round the country, I should gei my
name about, and get myself knowed ; and so
I did, for folks 'ud come to me, so that some-
times I've had four jobs of a-day, from people
seeing my cart. I found I was quite the
master of the rat, and could do pretty well
what I liked with him ; so I used to go round
Finchley, Highgate, and all the sububs, and
show myself, and how I handled the warmiut.
** I used to wear a costume of white leather
breeches, and a green coat and scarlet waist-
kit, and a goold band round my hat, and a
belt across my shoulder. I used to make a
first-rate appearance, such as was becoming
the imiform of the Queen's rat-ketcher.
" Lor' bless you ! I've travell'd all over
London, and I'll kill rats again anybody.
I'm open to all the world for any sum, from
one pound to fifty. I used to have my belts
painted at first by Mr. Bailey, the animal
painter — with four white rats; but the idea
come into my head that I'd cast the rats
i.i metal, just to make more appearance for
the belt, to come out in the world. I was
nights and days at it, and it give me a deal of
bother. I ceuld manage it no how ; but by my
own ingenuity and persewerance I succeeded.
A man axed me a pound a-piece for casting the
rats — that would ha* been four pound. I was
very certain that my belt, being a handsome
one, would help my business treraonjous in
the sale of my composition. So I took a
mould from a dead rat in plaster, and then
I got some of my wife's sarsepans, and, by
G — , I casted 'em with some of my own
pewter-pots."
The wife, who was standing by, here ex-
claimed—
" Oh, my poor sarsepans ! I remember 'em.
There was scarce one left to cook our wittels
with."
'• Thoussmds of moulders," continued Jack
Black, *• used to come to see mo do tho casting
of the rats, and they kept sajing, * You'll never
do it, Jack.' The great tUfiiculty, you sec, was
casting the heye — which is a black bead — into
tho metal.
"When tho belt was done, I had a groat
success; for, bless you, I couldn't go a yard
without a crowd after me.
'* When I was out with the cart selling my
composition, my usual method was this. I
used to put a board across the top, and form a
kind of counter. I always took with me a iron-
wire cage — so big a one, that Mr. Barnet, a
Jew, laid a wager that he could get into it, and
ho did. I used to form this cage at one end of
the cart, and sell my composition at the other.
There were rats painted round the cart — that
was the only show I had about the wehicle. I
used to take out the rats, and put them outside
the cage ; and used to begin tho show by putting
rats inside my shirt next my buzzum, or in my
coat and breeches pockets, or on my shoulder
— in fact, all about mo, anywhere. The i)eople
would stand to see me take up rats witliout
being bit. I never said much, but I used to
handle the rats in every possible manner,
letting 'em run up my arm, and stroking tlieir
backs and playing witli 'em. Most of the
people used to fancy they had been tamed on
purpose, until they'd see me take fresh ones
from the cage, and play with them in the same
manner. I all this time kept on selling my
composition, which my man Joe used to offer
about; and whenever a packet was sold, I
always tested its wirtues by killing a rat with
it afore the people's own eyes.
'• I once went to Tottenham to sell my com-
position, and to exhibit with my rats afore the
country people. Some countrymen, which
said they were rat-ketchers, came up to me
whilst I was playing with some rats, and said
— * Ugh, you're not a rat-ketcher ; that's not
the way to do it.' They were startled at seeing
me selling tho pison at such a rate, for the
shilling packets was going xmcommon well, sir.
I said, • No, I ain't a rat-ketcher, and don't know
nothink about it. You come up and show me
how to do it,' One of them come up on the
cart, and put his hand in the cage, and curous
enough he got three bites directly, and afore
he could take his hands out they was nearly
bit to ribands. My man Joe, says he, * I tell
you, if we ain't rat-ketchers, who is ? We are
the regular rat ketchers ; my master kills 'em,
and then I eats 'em' — and he takes up a live
one and puts its head into his mouth, and I
puts my hand in the cage and pulls out six or
seven in a cluster, and holds 'em up in the sdr7
witliout even a bite. The countrymen bust out
laughing ; and they said, ' Well, you're the best
we ever see.' I sold near 4/. worth of compo-
sition that day.
"Another day, when I'd been out flying
pigeons as well— carriers, which I fancies to —
I drove tho cart, after selling the composition,
to the King's Arms, Hanwell, and there was a
feller there — a tailor by trade — what had
turned rat-ketcher. He had got witli him some
fifty or sixty rats — the miserablest mangey
brutes you ever seed in a tub — taking 'e:n up
to London to sell. I, hearing of it, was deter-
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
17
imned to have a lark, so I goes up and takes
oQt ten of them rats, and puts them inside my
shirt, next my buzzum, and then I iraUcs into
the parlour and sits down, and begins drinking
my ale as right as if nothink had happened.
I scarce had seated myself, when the landlord
— ^wbo was in the lay — says, ' I know a man
who'll ketch rats quicker than anybody in the
world.' This put the tailor chap up, so he
olfers to bet half-a-gallon of ale he would, and
I takes him. He goes to the tub and brings
oat a very laige rat, and walks with it into the
Toom to show to the company. * Well,* says I
to the man, • why I, who ain't a rat-ketcher, I've
got a bigger one here,' and I pulls one out
from my buzzum. * And here's another, and
another, and another,' says I, till I had placed
the whole ten on the table. * That's the way
I ketch 'em,' says I, — *they comes of their
own accord to me.' He tried to handle the
warmints, but the poor fellow was bit, and his
hands was soon bleeding fur'ously, and I with-
out a mark. A gentleman as knowed me said,
■-This must be the Queen's rat-ketcher, and that
sp ilt the fun. The poor fellow seemed regular
done up, and said, ' I shall give up rat-ketching,
you've beat me ! Here I've been travelling
with rats all my life, and I never see such a
thing afore.*
" When. I've been in a mind for travelling
I've never sold less than ten shillings' worth
of my composition, and I've many a time sold
five pounds' worth. Ten shillings' worth was
the least I ever sold. During my younger
career, if I'd had a backer, I might, one week
with another, have made my clear three pounds
a. week, after paying all my expenses and
feeding my horse and alL
'* I challenge my composition, and sell the
art of rat-destroying, against any chemical rat-
destmyer in the world, for any sum — ^I don't
care what it is. Let anybody, either a medical
or druggist manufacturer of composition, come
and test with rats again me, and they'll pretty
soon find it out. People pay for composition
instead of employing the Queen's rat-ketcher,
what kills the warmint and lays down his com-
position for nothink into the bargain likewise.
** I also destroy black beedles with a com-
position which I ilways keep with me again it's
wanted. I often have to destroy thd beedles in
wine-cellars, which gnaw the paper off the
bottles, snch as is round the champagne and
French wine bottles. Pve killed lots of
beedles too for bakers. I've also sterminated
some thousands of beedles for linen-drapers
and pork-sassage shops. There's two kinds of
beedles, the hard-shell and the soft-shell
beedle. The hard-shell one is the worst, and
Uua will gnaw cork, paper, and anythink
vodlen. The soft-shell'd one will gnaw bread
<v food, and it also lays its eggs in the food,
vbiefa is dreadful nasty.
" There's the house ant too, which there is
tome thousands of people as never saw — I
itenninate them as well. There's a Mrs. B.
at the William the Fourth pnblic-house,
Hampstead; she couldn't lay her cliild's clothes
down without getting 'em full of ants. They've
got a stingp something in feel like a horse-fly's,
and is more annoying than dangerous. It's
cockroaches that are found in houses. They're
dreadful nasty things, and will bite, and they
are equal to the Spanish flies for blistering.
I've tried all insects on my flesh to see how
they bite me. Cockroaches will undermine
similar to the ant, and loosen the bricks the
same as the cricket. It's astonishing how so
small an insect as them will scrape away such
a quantity of mortar as they do — which thing
infests grates, floorings, and such-like.
" The beedle is a most 'strordinnry thing,
which will puzzle most people to sterminate,
for they lays sitch a lot of eggs as I would
never guarantee to do away with beedles — only
to keep them clear ; for if you kills the old
ones the eggs will rewive, and young ones come
out of the wainskitting and sitch-like, and then
your employers will say, ' Wliy you were paid
for sterminating, and yet here they are.'
" One night in August — the niglit of a very
heavy storm, which, maybe, you may remem-
ber, sir — I was sent for by a medical gent as
lived opposite the Load of Hay, Hampstead,
whose two children had been att^icked by rats
while they was sleeping in their little cots. I
traced the blood, which had left lines from
their tails, through the openings in the lath
and plaster, wliich I follered to where my
ferruts come out of, and they must have come
up from the bottom of the house to the attics.
The rats gnawed the hands and feet of the
little children. The lady heard them crying,
and got out of her bed and called to the servant
to know what the child was making such a
noise for, when they struck a light, and then
they see the rats running away to the holes ;
their little night-gownds was kivered with
blood, as if their throats had been cut. I asked
the lady to give me one of the night-gownds to
keep as a cur'osity, for I considered it a phee-
nomenon, and she give it to me, but I never
was so vexed in all my life as when I was told
the next day that a maid had washed it. I went
down the next morning and stenfdnated them
rats. I found they was of the specie of rat
which we term the blood-rat, which is a dread-
ful spiteful feller — a snake-headed rat, and
infests the dwellings. There may have been
some dozens of 'em altogether, but it's so long
ago I a'most forget how many I took in that
house. The gent behaved uncommon hand-
some, and said, * Mr. Black, I can never pay
you for this;' and ever arterwards, when I
used to pass by that there house, the little
dears when they see me used to call out to
their mamma, '0, here's Mr. Ratty, ma!'
They wei-e very pretty little fine children —
uncommon handsome, to be sure.
" I once went to Mr. Hollins's, in Edward-
street Begent's-park — a cow- keeper he was —
where he was so infested that the cows could
18
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
not la\ down or eat their food, for the rats used
to go into the mauger, and light at 'em. Air.
lloUins snid to me, * Black, what shall I give
yon to get rid of tUem rats?' and I said to him,
Bays I. • >Vell. Mr. llollins, you're a poor man,
and I leave it to you.' (He's got awful ricli
since thon. ) I went to work, and I actually
took out :3(X) rats from one hole in Uie wall,
which I had to can*}' them in my mouth and
hands, and under my arms, and in my huzzum
and pockets, to take them to the cage. I was
hit dreadful by tliem, and suiTerod greatly hy
the bites; but nothink to lay up for, though
very painful to the hands. Toperveut the ruts
from getting out of the hole, 1 had to stop it
up by putting my breast again it> and thon they
was jumping up again me and gnawing at my
waistkit. I should think I stenninated 000
from thorn premises. Ah! I did wonders
round there, and everybody was talking of my
feats.
•• I'll tell you about another cow-keeper's,
which Mr. HoUins was so gratified with my
skill what I had done, that he pays me hand-
some and generous, and gives me a rooom-
moudation to Mrs. Brown's, of Camdt* n-town,
and there I sterminated above 7CX) rats ; and I
was a-near being killed, for I was stooping
down under the manger, when a cow heerd the
rats squeak, and she butts at me and scuds me
up again the b\dl. The bull was voiy savage,
and I fainted ; but I was picked up and washed,
and then I come to.
** Whilst doing tliat job at Mrs. Brown's I
had to lie down on the ground, and push my
naked arm into the hole till I could reach thf
rats as I'd driven up in the comer, and ihv.n
pull them out with my hand. I was dreadful
hit, for I was obleeged to haniUe them any-
how ; uiy liesh was cut to ribands and dreadful
laccruted.
" There was a mnn Mrs. Brown lind got of the
name of John, and he wouldn't believe about
the rats, and half thought I brought 'em \^ith
me. So I showecl him how to ketch rats.
" You sei> rats have always got a main run,
and from it go the branch runs on each side
like on a herring-bone, and at the end of the
branch runs is the bolt-holes, for coming in
and out at. I instantly stopped up all the
bolt-holes and worked Uie rats down to tlie
end of the main run, then I broke up the
branch runs and stopped the rats getting back,
and thon, when I'd got 'em all together at tlie
end of the main run, I put my arm down and
lifted them up. I have had at times to put
half my body into a hole and thrust down my
arm just like getting rabbits out of their bur-
rers.
'* Sometimes I have to go myself into the
holes, for the rats make such big ones, there's
plent>' of room. There was a Mrs. Perry in
Albany-street that kept an oil and coke shop
—she were infested with rats dreadful. Three
of her shop- boys had been sent away on sus-
picion of stealing fat, instead of which it was
the rats, for l>etween the walls and the vault
1 found a hundred and a half of fat stowed
away. The rats was very savage, and I should
think there was 200 of them. I made a good
bit of money by that job, lor Mrs. Perry give
the fat to me.
*^ I have had some good finds at times, rat-
hunting. I found under one Hoor in a gent's
house a great quantity of table napkins and
>iilver spoons and forks, which tlie rats had
carried away for the grease on 'em — shoes
and boots gnawed to pieces, sliifts, aprons,
gowuds, pieces of silk, and I don't know what
not. Sarvants had been discharged accused of
stealing them there things. Of course I had
to give them up ; but there they was.
*• I was once induced to go to a mews in
Tavistook-place, near Russell-square, which
was reg'lar infested by rat<. 'I'hoy had sent to
a man before, and he couldn't do nothink with
'em, but I soon sterminatcil them. The rats
there had worried a pair of bcwitiful chestnut
horses, by gnawing away their hoofs and
nearly driving them mad, which I saw myself,
and there was all their teeth -marks, for I
I could scarcely believe it myself till I see it. I
found them near a cart-loail of ronimou
bricks, under the floor, and near the i>;irtition
of the stable, which, when the men pulled
the wood- work down, the coaclimmi, snys he,
* Well, rat-ketcher, if you'd been emi>l«iyoil years
ago a deal more com would have gone into
the horses.*
" This coachman give mo a rocoramonda-
to a muffin-maker in Hanway-yard, and I went
there and killed tlic rats. But a most sing'Iar
tiling took place there; my ft?rr«t got iiwny
and run through into a house in Oxford-street
kept by a linen-draper, for the young men
come to say that the rat-ketchcr's f.-rret was
in their shop, and had bit one of their lady
customers. I worked the ferrut through three
times to make sure of this ; and each time mj
little dog told mo it was true. You see a well-
trained dog will watch and staud and point to
the ferrut working under ground just as a
pinter does to game ; and although he's above
ground, yet he'll track the fennit through the
runs undemeatli by the smell. If the ferrut
is lost — which I tell by the dog being uneasy
— I say to the dog, * Hi, lost ; ' and tlien he in-
Btantly goes on scent, and smells about in
every direction, and I follers him, till he
stands exactly over the spot where it may be,
and then I have either to rise a stone or lift a
board to get liim out.
" I've ratted for years for Mr. Hodges, of
Hodges and Lowman's, in Regent-street; and
he once said to me, that he was infested
dreadAU with rats at the house, which he took
for the children, at Hampstead; so I went
there, and witnessed, certainly, the most cuT-
ous circumstance, which puzzles me to this
day. I had to lay on my belly half in the hole
and pull out the rats; and, on looking at
them, as I brings them up, I un aalouished
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOB.
19
to find that nearly ereiy one of them is blind,
and has a speck in the eye. I was never so
nrach astoniidied in my life, for tho} was as a
wall-cyed dog nught be. I supposed it to be
froia. Ughtning (1 couldn't account for it no
other ways), for at that time there was very
heavy lightning and floods up there, which
maybe you might remember, sir. They was
chiefly of the blood-rat specie — small snake-
head^ rats, with a big, flne taiL They was
Teiy savage with me, and I had them run all
orer me before I keiohed th^m.
**• Bats are everywhere about London, both
in rid^ and poor places. I've ketohed rats in
44 Portland -place, at a clergyman's house
there. There was 200 and odd. They had un-
derminded the oven so, that th^ could nei-
ther bile nor bake ; they had under-pinioned
the stables, and let every stone down through-
out the premises, pretty well. I had to crawl
under a big leaden dstem which the rats had
under-pinioned, and I expected it would come
down upon me every minute. I had one little
feimt lull thiity-two rats under one stone, and
I lifted the dead ones up in the presence of
the cook and the butler. He didn't behave
well to me — the gent didn't — for I had to go
to my lawyer's afore I could get paid, and
titer the use of my skill ; and I had to tell the
lawyer Td pawn my bed to stick to him and
get my eamingn ; but, after all, I had to take
one-tluld less than my bilL This, thinks I,
isn't the nght thing ibr Portland-place.
** Bats will eat each other like rabbits,
which I've watched them, and seen them turn
the dead one's skins out like pusses, and cat
the flesh oflf beautiful dean. I've got cages of
iron-wire, which I made myself, which will
hold 1000 rats at a time, and I've had these
cages piled up with rata, solid like. No one
would ever bdieve it; to look at a quantity of
rats, and see how they will fight and tear one
another about, — it's astonishing, so it is I I
never found any rats smothered, by putting
them in a cage so full ; but if you don't feed
them every day, they'll fight and eat one ano-
ther— they will, like cannibals.
'* I genml contzaots with my customers, by
the year, or month, or job. There's some
genta I've woriced for these fifteen years —
aiteh as Mr. Bobson, the coach - builder,
Mivart's Hotel, Shoulbreds', Mr. Lloyds, the
large tobacconist, the Commercial Life Assu-
laiice. Lord Dunoannon^s, and I can't recollect
how many more. My terms is from one
guinta to five pounds per annum, according
to the premises. Besides this, I have all the
tats that I ketch, and they sell for threepence
aoeh. But Tva done my work too well, and
irtwrevmr I went I've cleared the rats right
oat, and so my customers have fell off. I have
■ot the beat teadmonials of any man in Lon-
don, and I eonld get a hatful more to-morrer.
Ask anybody Tve worked for, and they'll tell
you about Jack Blaek.
» Ono night I had two hundred rats in a
cage, placed in my sitting-room, and a gent's
dog happened to get at the cage, and undid
the door, snufiin|f about, and let 'em all loose.
Directly I come in I knew they was loose by
the 8mel>. I had to go on my knees and sto-
mach under the beds and scKfas, and all over
the house, and before twelve o'clock that night
I had got 'em all back again into the cage, and
sold them after for a match. I was so fearful
they'd get gnawing the children, having ster-
minated them in a house where children had
been gnawed.
** I've turned my attention to evexything
connected with animals. I've got the best
composition for curing the mange in a horse
or a dog. which has reglor astonished medical
gents. I've also been bit by a mad dog — a
black retriever dog, that died racing mad in a
cellar afterwards. The only thing I did was,
I washed the wound with salt and water, and
used a turpentine poultice."
Mrs. Black here interposed, exclaiming, —
*^ 0 dear me ! the salt and water he's had to
his flesh, it ought to be as hard as iron. I'vo
seen him put lumps of salt into his wounds."
Mr. Black then continued : —
" I never had any uneasiness from that bite
of a mad dog ; indeed, I never troubled myself
about it, or even thought of it.
^ I've caught some other things besides rats
in my time. One night, I saw a little South
African cat going along the New -road. I
thought it was a cur'ous specie of rat, and
chased it, and brought it home with me ; but
it proved to belong to Mr. Herring's mena-
gerie in the New-road, so I let him have it
back again.
" Another time I met with two racoons, which
I found could handle mc just as well as I could
handle a rat, for they did bite and scratch
awful. I put 'em in the cart, and brought
thorn home in a basket. I never found out to
whom they belonged. I got them in KatcUfle-
highway, and no doubt some sailors had
brought them over, and got drunk, and let
'em loose. I tried them at killing rats, but
they weren't no good at that.
*' I've leomt a monkey to kill rats, but he
wouldn't do much, and only give them a good
shaking when they bit him. After I found the
racoons no good, I trained a badger to kill
rats, and he was superior to any dog, but very
difficult in training to get him to loll, though
they'll kill rabbits fast enough, or any other
kind of game, for they're rare poachers are
badgers. I used to call her Polly. She killed
in my own pit, for I used to obleege my
friends that wouldn't believe it possible with
the sight. She won several matches — the
largest was in a hundred match.
'* I also sterminate moles for her Majesty,
and the Woods and Forests, and I've stermi-
nated some hundreds for different farmers in
the country. It's a cur'ous thing, but a mole
will kiU a rat and eat it afterwards, and two
nudes will fight wonderful. They've got a
20
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
mouth exactly like a shark, and teeth like
saws ; ah, a wonderftil saw mouth. They're a
very sharp-biting little animal, and very pain-
ful. A rat is frightened of one, and don't like
fighting them at all.
" Fve bred the finest collection of pied rats
which has ever been knowed in the world. I
had above eleven hundred of them — all wane-
gated rats, and of a dififerent specie and
colour, and all of them in the first instance
bred from the Norwegian and the white rat,
and afterwards crossed with other specie.
" I have ris some of the largest tailed rats
ever seen. I've sent them to all parts of the
globe, and near every town in England. When
I sold 'em ott', three hundred of them went to
France. I ketched the first white rat I had
at Hampstendj and the black ones at Messrs.
Hodges and Lowman's, in Regent-street, and
them I bred in. I have 'em fawn and white,
black and white, brown and white, red and
white, blue-black and white, black-white and
red.
" People come from all parts of London to
sec them rat«, and I supplied near all the
* happy families ' with them. Burke, who
had the ' happy family ' showing about Lon-
don, has had hundreds from me. They got
very tame, and you could do anythink with
them. I've sold many to ladies for keeping
in squirrel cages. Years ago I sold 'em for
five and t«*n shillings a-pieco, but towards the
end of my breeding them, I let 'cm go for
two-and-six. At a shop in Leicester-square,
where Cantello's liatching-eggs machine was,
I sold a sow and six young ones for ten shil-
lings, which formerly I have had five pounds
for, being so docile, like a sow sucking her
pigs."
The Sewerman.
He is a broad-shouldered, strongly-built man,
with a stoop in his shoulders, and a rather
dull cast of features ; from living so much in
the " shores " (sewers), his eyes have a-^sumcd
a peering kind of look, that is quite rat-like in
its fdrtivencss.
He answered our questions with great good
Immour, but in short monosyllabic terms, pe-
culiar to men who have little commimion with
their fellows.
The " parlour " in which the man lives was
literally swarming with children when we paid
him a visit (they were not all "belonging " to
him). Nor was it quite pleasant to find that
the smell of the tea, which had just been made,
was overpowered by the odour of the rats
which he keeps in the same room.
The week's wash was hanging across the
apartment, and gave rather a slovenly aspect
to the room, not otherwise peculiar for its un-
tidyness ; against the wall were pasted some
children's " characters," which his second son,
who is at the coal-shed, has a taste for, and
which, as the *' shoreman " observed, *' is
better than sweet-stufiT for him, at all events."
A little terrier was jumping playfully about
the room, a much more acceptable companion
than the bull-dog whose acquaintance we had
been invited to make (in the same court ) by the
" rat-killer."
The fiuTiituTB and appointments of the
"parlour" were extremely humble — not to
say meagre in their character. After some
trouble in getting sufficiently lucid answers,
the following was the result : —
" There ore not so many rats about as there
used to be — not a five-hundredth part so
many. I've seen long ago twenty or thirty in
a row near where the slaughter-houses are,
and that like. I ketch them all down the
shores. I run after them and pick them up
with my hand, and I take my lantern with
me,
"I have caught rats these six or seven
yoars. When the money got to bo lowered, I
took to kctching on them. One time I used
to take a dog with me, when I worked down
St. John's-wood way.
" They fetches all prices, does rats ; some I
get threepence a-pieco for, some twopence,
some twopence- halfpenny — 'cordiu' who has
'cm.
" I works on the shores, and our time to
leave oif is four. I comes homo and gets my
tea, and if there's sale for them, wliy I goes
out and ketches a few rats. When I goes out
I can ketch a dozen ; but, years ago, I could
ketch two or three dozen without going so
far, and that shows there's not so many now
about
"I finds some difficulty in ketching on
them. If they gct« into the drain you can't
get 'cm. Where the drains lay low to the
shore it's most difficult, but where the drain
is about two feet and a-half from the shore
you gets a better chance.
" Three or four dozen I used to ketch, but
I haven't ketched any this last two or three
weeks. In this hot weather people don't like
to be in a room where * killing ' is going on ;
but in the winter time a man will have his
pint of beer and see a little sport that way.
Three or four year ago I did ketch a pood
many ; there was a ssde for 'em. I could go
and ketch two dozen in three hours, and that
sooner than I can do a dozen now. It's vai'-
mint as wants to be destroyed.
" Rats'U turn round when they finds their-
selves beat, and sometimes fiy at your hand.
Sometimes Fve got bit — not very badly,
though. To tell the truth, I don't like it
When they grip, they do holt so tight before
they'll let go.
•* I've been a shoreman these fifteen or six-
teen year, ever since this flushing com-
menced. I was put on by the Commissioners
in Hatting OanUng ; but the Commissioners
is all done away with since Government took
to it Tm employed by the parish now.
Every parish has to do its own flushing.
** We cleanses away all the soil what's down
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
21
bcloir, and keeps the shore as sweet as what
mpofisihly can.
''Before I took to this life I was what they
cdl a nsTTy ; I used to help to make the
Bfaores, and before that, I was in the country
•t funaersr work.
^ Ketching them rats ain't all profit, 'cause
you ha^e to keep 'em and feed 'em. I've
some here, if I was to get sixpence a-piece
for, why it wouldn't pay me for their feed. I
give them barley generally, and hits of bread.
** There's a many about now ketchin' who
does nothink else, and who goes down in the
shores when they have no busineA there at
tIL They does well by rats when they've
good call for 'em. They can go down two or
three times a-day, and ketch a dozen and a
half a time ; but they can't do much now,
there's no killing going on. They takes 'em
to beer-shops, and sells 'em to the landlords,
who gets their own price for ^m if there's a
piL
" Time ago yon couldn't get a rat under
iizpence. But the tax on dogs has done
svay wonderful with rat-killing. London
would swarm with rats if they hadn't been
ketched as they has been. I can go along
shores and only see one or two now, some-
tuues see none. Times ago I've drove
away twenty or thirty afore me. Bound
Newport-market I've seen a hundred together,
and now I go round there and perhaps won't
ketch one.
^As for pcisonin* 'em under buildings,
that's wrong; they're sure to lay there and
rot, and then they smells so. No, pisoning
a'n't no good, specially where there's many on
'em.
^' I've sold Jack Black a good many. He
dont ketch so many as he gets lolled. He's
what they call rat-ketoher to her Majesty.
''When I goes rat- ketching, I generally
takes a bag with me ; a trap is too much to
log about.
** Some parts of the shores I can find my
way about better than I can up above. I
could get in nigh here and come out at High
Park; only the worst of it is, you're always on
the stoop. I never heeid talk of anybody
losing theirselves in the shores, but a stranger
might.
** There's some what we calls ' gully-hun-
ters' as goes about with a sieve, and near the
J gratings find perhaps a few ha'pence. Years
{ igo we used to find a little now and then, but
j Te may go about now and not find twopence in
I s vcek I dont think any shoreman ever finds
Bnidb. But years ago, in the city, perhaps a
< lobboy might be committed, and then Uiey
I ttffkt be afhud of being found out, and chuck
tht things down the drains.
"I eome from. Oxfordshire, about four miles
to HeoIey-'pon-Thames. I haven't got now
fiDte so manj clods to tramp over, nor so
&IBT hills to <dixnb.
I "f gets two shUlings a-dozen if I sells the
I
rats to a dealer, but if I takes 'em to the pit
myself I gets three shillings. Bats has come
down lately. There's more pits, and they
kills 'em cheaper ; they used to kill 'em at six
shillings a-dozen.
" I've got five children. These here are
not all belonging to me. Their mother's
gone out a-nussing, and my wife's got to mind
'em.
" My oldest son is sixteen. He's off for a
sailor. I had him on me for two years doin'
nothink. He couldn't get a place, and to-
wards the last he didn't care about it. He
tpould go to sea ; so he went to the Marine
School, and now he's in the East Ingy Sarv-ice.
My second is at a coal-shed. He gets three
shillings a-week; but. Lord, what's that? He
eats more than that, let alone clothes, and he
wears out such a lot of shoe-leather. There's
a good deal of wear and tear, I can tell yer, in
carrying out coals and such-like."
The Penny Mouse-tbap Makeb.
This man lived in a small cottage at the
back of Bethnal Green-road, and the little
ndled space in front of the humble dwelling
was Uttered with sundxy evidences of the in-
mate's ingenuity. Here was a mechanical
carriage the crippled father had made to drivo
himself along, and a large thaumatrope, or
disc of painted figures, that seemed to move
while revolving rapidly before the eye; and
this, I afterwards learnt, the ingenious cripple
had made, as a street exhibition, for a poor
man, whom he was anxious to put in the way
of doing something for himself.
The principal apartment in the little two-
roomed house was blocked up with carpenters'
benches, and long planks were resting against
the wall, while the walls themselves were partly
covered with tools and patterns of the craft
pursued ; and in one corner there were heaps of
the penny mouse-traps and penny iponey-boxes,
that formed the main articles of manufacture.
In a little room adjoining this, and about the
size of a hen-house, I found the cripple him-
self in bed, but still sitting up with a small
desk-like bench before him, and engaged in the
act of cutting and arranging the wires for the
little wooden traps in which he dealt. And as
I sat by his bedside he told me the following
story : —
*' I am," he said, ** a white-wood toy-maker,
in a small way ; that is, I make a variety of
cheap articles, — nothing beyond a penny, — in
sawed and planed pine- wood. I manufac-
ture penny and halfpenny money-boxes,
penny and nal^enny toy bellows, penny carts,
penny garden-rollers, penny ana halfpenny
dolls' tables and washhand-stands, chiefly
for baby-houses ; penny dressers, with drawers,
for the some purpose; penny wheelbarrows
and bedsteads; penny crossbows; and the
mouse-trap that I am about now. I make all
the things I have named for warehouses — for
23
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
what are called the cheap Birmingham and
Sheffield houses. I am paid the same price
for whatever I make, with the exception of
the moose-trap. For the principal part of
tlic penny articles that I make I get 7s.
for twelve dozen, that is Id. a -dozen;
and for the halfpenny articles I get d«. Qd,^
at the rate of ^\d, a-dozen. For the penny
mouse-traps, however, I am paid only 1/. for
thirty-six dozen, and tiiat's a shilling less than
I get for the same quantity of the other
shming articles ; whilst for tie penny boxes
I'm paid only at the rate of a halfpenny each.
'* You will please to look at that, sir," he said,
hon<ling me his account-book wiUi one of his
employers for the last year ; " you will see
there that what I am saying is perfectly cor-
rect, for there is the price put to every article ;
and it is but right that you should have proof
that what I'm a-telling you is the truth. I
took of one master, for penny mouse-traps
alone, you perceive, 36/. 10». from January to
December, 1B49; but that is not all gain,
you'll understand. Out of that I have to pay
above one half for material. I think, altoge-
ther, my receipts of the different masters I
worked for last year came to about 120/. — I
can't lay my hands on the bills just now. —
Yes, it's about 120/. I know, for our income, —
that is, my clear gains is about 1/. to 1/. 5«.
every week. So, calculating more than one
half what I take to go for the expense for ma.
terial, that will bring it to just about to what
I state. To cam the 25s. a- week, you'll under-
Htimd, there are four of us engaged, — myself,
my wife, my daughter, and son. My daugh-
ter is eighteen, and my son eleven : that is my
boy, sir ; he's reading the Family Friend just
now. It's a little work I take in for my girl,
for her fdture benefit My girl is as fond of
reading as I am, and always was. My boy
goes to school every evening, and twice on a
Sunday. I am willing that they should find
as much pleasure fVom reading as I have in my
ilhiess. I found books often luH my pain.
Yes, I have, indeed, for many hours. For
nine months I couldn't handle a tool ; and my
only comfort was the love of my family, and
my books. I can't affbrd them now, for I have
no wish to incur any extraneous expense,
while the weight of the labour lies on my
family more than it does on myself. Over
and over again, when I have been in acute
pain with my thigh, a scientific book, or a
work on history, or a volume of travels, would
carry m^ thoughts fhr away, and I should be
happy in all my miseiy — hardly conscious
that I had a trouble, a care, or a pang to vex
mo. I always had love of solid woi^. For
an hour's light reading, I have often turned to
a work of imagination, such as Milton's Para-
dise Lostt and Shakspeare's Plays ; but I pre-
fer science to poetry. I think every working
man ought to be acquainted with genend
science. If he is a mechanic — let his station
be over so simple^ — he will be sure to find the I
benefit of it It gives a man a greater insight
into the world and creation, and it makes his
labour a pleasure and a pride to him, when he
can work with his head as well as his hands.
I think I have made, altogether, about one
hundred and six gross of mouse-traps for the
master whose account I have given you, and
as many more for other employers, in the
course of the last year. I calculate that I made
more than thirty thousand mouse-traps from
January to December, 1849. There are three
or four other people i& London making penny
mouse-traps, besides myself. I reckon they may
make omonff them near upon half as many oe
I do ; and tnat would give about forty- five or
fifty thousand penny mouse-traps made in
London in the course of the year. I myself
brought out the penny mouse-trap in its im-
proved shape, and with the improved lever
spring. I have no calculations as to the num-
ber of mice in the country, or how soon we
should have caught them if we go on at this
rate ; but I think my traps have to do with that
They are bought more for toys than for use,
though they are good for mice as well as chil-
dren ; and though we have so many dozen mouse*
traps about the house, I can assure you we are
more troubled with mice here than most people.
The four of us here can make twenty-four
dozen traps in the day, but that is all we can
get through comfortable. For eighteen dozen
we got about 10«. at the warehouse, and out of
that I reckon our clear gains are near upon
4«., or a little less than Is. a head. Take one
¥ath the other, we con earn about a penny an
hour; and if it wasn't for me having been a
tailor originally, and applying some of my old
tools to the business, we shouldn't get on
so quick as we do. With my shears I can
cut twenty-four wires at a time, and with my
thimble I thread the wires through the holes
in the sides. I make the springs, out the
wires, and put them in the traps. My daughter
planes the wood and gauges out the sides and
bottom, bores the wire-holes and makes the
door as well. My wife nails the frames ready
for wiring, and my son fixes the wires in their
places when I have entered them ; then the
wife springs them, after which the daughter
puts in the doors and so completes them.
I can't form an idea as to how many penny
and halfpenny money-boxes I made last year.
I might have made, altogether, eight thousand,
or five thousand hal4>enny and three thousand
I>enny ones. I was originally brought up to
the tailoring business, but my master failed,
and my sight kept growing weaker every year ;
so, OS I found a good deal of trouble in getting
employment at my own trade, I thought 1 would
take to the bird-cage making — I had been doing
a little at it before, as a pastime. I was fond of
birds, and fonder still of mechanics, so I was
always practising my hands at some croft or
other in my over-time. I used to make
dissected maps and puzzles, and so, when
standing for employment, I managed to get
LONDON LABQUM AND THE LONJXON POOR.
23
thioiic^ the slaek of the year. I think it is
Kdely due to my taste for meehanics and my
kne of roMiiDg scientific books that I am able
to li^pe so eonkfortably as I do in ny affliction.
After I took to bird-cage makiag, I fbund the
empkysMBBt et it so csstud that I could not
iiijpfml» »x fiamily at it. This kd my mind to
toy maka^. Ux I found that cheap toys were
arttdea of move general sale. Then I got
my childieB and toj wiJfe to help me, and
ira BMBa^^ to get along somehow, for you
see th^ Here leaiaing the bnsiness, and I
myself was not m ma6bi of a condition to
teach them, being jalmost as inezpenenced at
the trade as they were; and, besides that, we
were cooUnoally changing the description of
toy that we manofiKtured, so we had no time
to perfect oorselTes. One day we were all at
work at garden-rollers ; the next, perhaps, we
sbould be apon little carts ; then, may-be, we
shoold hare to go to dolls' tables or wheel-
barrows : so that, with the continiial changing
the deteription of toy that we manufactured
fiom one thing to another, we had a great
diffien^y in getting {practised in anything.
While we were all leaning you may imagine
that, not being so qnick then as we are now,
we finmd a great diffioolty in making a living
at the penny-toy hoaineas : often we had merely
diy bread for breakftat, tea, and sapper, but we
ate it with a light hearty fbr I knew repining
wouldn't mend it, and I always taught myself
and thoaa aboot me to hear our trials with
fortitude. At last I got to work regularly at
the mouse-traps, and having less changing we
learnt to turn them out of hand quicker, and
to make more money at the buainesa : that
waa about four yean ago^ and then I was laid
up with a strumous abscess in the thigh.
This caused necrosis, or decay of the thigh-
bone, to take place, and it was necessary that
I should be coaJftned to my bed until such
time as a new thigh-bone was formed, and the
old decayed one had sloughed away. Before
I lay up I stood at the bench until I was ready
to ^x)p, for I had no one who could plane the
boards for me; and whatcould I do? If I didn't
keep up. I thought we should all starve. The
rin was dreadful, and the anxiety of mind
■nffifred for my wife and children made it
a thousand times worse. I couldn't bear the
idea of going to the workhouse, and I kept on
my feet until I couldn't stand no longer. My
dnighter was only sixteen then, and I saw no
means of escape. It was at that time my office
to prepare the boards for my &niily, and with-
OBt that they could do nothing. Well, sir,
I saw utter ruin and starvation before us.
The doctor told me it would take four years
bc&te a new bone would be formed, and that
I must lay up all the while. What was to
beeome of us all in the mean time I could not
tdL Then it was that my daughter, seeing
the pain •! saflered both in body and mind,
finaa to me* ^aid told me not to grieve, for that
ibs vvMiki do all the heavy work for me, and
plane up the boards and cut out the work as
I had done ; but I thought it impossible for
her to get through such hard work, even for
my sakck. I knew she could do almost any-
thing that she. set her mind to, but I little
dreamt that she would be able to compass that.
However, with the instinct of her affection —
I can't call it anything else (for she loamt at
once what it had taken me months to acquire),
she planed and shaped the boards as well as
I myself could have done after years of practice.
The furst board she did was as cleanly done as
she can do it now, and when you t^^ink of the
difficulties she had to overcome, what a mere
child she was, and that she hod ne\or handled
a plane before, how she had the grain of the
wood to find out, to learn the right handling
of her tools, and a many little niceties of touch
that workmen only can understand, it does
seem to me as if some superior Power had
inspired her to aid me. I have often heard of
birds building their nests of the most beautiful
structure, wimout ever having seen one built
before, and my daughter's handiwork seemed
to me exactly like that It was a thing not
learnt by practice, but done in an instant,
without teaching or experience of any kind.
She is the best creature I ever knew or ever
heard tell of on earth — at least, so she has
been to me all her life ; aye, without a single
exception. If it hadn't been for her devotion
I must have gone to the workhouse, and
perhaps never been able to have got away
nrom it, and had my children brought up as
paux>ers. Where she got the strength to do it
is as much a mystery to me as how she did
it. Though she was but a mere child, so to
speak, she did the work of a grown man, and
I ossiure you the labour of working at the
bench all day is heavy, even for the strongest
workman, and my girl is not over-strong now ;
indeed she was always delicate from a baby:
nevertheless she went through the labour, and
would stand to the bench the whole of the day,
and with such cheerful good humour too that
I cannot but see the hand of the Almighty in
it all. I never knew her to complain of fatigue,
or ever go to her work without a smile on her
face. Her only anxiety was to get done, and
to afford me every comfort in my affliction that
she could. For three years and two months
now have I been confined to my bed, and for
two years and a half of that time I have not
left it, even to . breathe the fresh open air.
/Umost all that period I have been suffering
intense and continued pain from the formation
of abscesses in my thigh previous to the sloilgh-
ing away of the decayed bones. 1 have taken
out of the sores at least two hundred pieces,
some OS small as needles and somo not less
than an inch and a half long, which required
to be pulled out with tweezers from the wound.
Often, when 1 was getting a bit better and able
to go about in the cart you see Uiere outside,
with tlie gravel in it — (I made that on this bed
here, so as to be able to move about on it { the
24
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
two front wheels I made myself, and the two
back were old ones that I repaired here. I made
the whole of tlio body, and my daughter planed
up the boards for me) — well, often when I could
juHt get along in that, have I gone about with
a large piece of decayed bone projecting through
my thigh, in hopes that tliejolting would force
it through the wound. The pain before the
bone came away was often intense, especially
when it had to work its way tlirough the thick
of the muscle. Night after night have I laid
awake here. I didn't wish, of course, to distress
the minds of my family any more than I could
help. It would not have been fair ; so I bore
all with patience, and since I have been here
I have got through a great deal of work in my
little way. Tn bed, as I sit with my little
bench, I do my sliaro of eight dozen of these
penny traps a-day. Lost August I made a
' thaumatropu ' for a young man that I had
known since a lad of twelve years of age ; he
got off work and couldn't find anything to turn
his hand to, so I advised him to get up an
exliibition : anything was better than starving,
lie had a wife and two children, and I can't
bear to see any one wont, let alone the yoimg
ones ; and so, cripple as I was, I set to work
hero in my bed and made him a large set of
magic circles. I painted all the figures myself
in this place, though I had never handled a
brush before, and that has kept him in bread
up to tliis time. I did it to cause him to
exert himself, but now he has got a situation,
and is doing middling to what he has been :
there's one thing though, a little money, with
care, will go farther than a great deal with-
out it. I shall never be able to get about as
I used, for you see the knee is set stifi* and the
thigh-bone is arched with the hip, so that the
one leg is tlireo inches shorter than the other.
The bone broke spontaneously, like a bit of
rotten wood, the other day, while I was rubbing
my hand down my thigh, and in growing to-
gether again it got out of straight. I am just
able to stir about now with a crutch and stick.
I can sometimes treat myself to a walk about
the house and yard, but that is not often, and
last Saturday niglit I did make a struggle to
get out in the Bcthnal Green-road, and there,
as I was coming along, my stick tripped against
a stone and I fell. If it hadn't been for my
crutch throwing me forward, I might have
fallen on my new bone and broken it again.
But as it was, the crutch threw me forward and
saved me. My doctor tells me my new bone
would bear a blow, but I shouldn't like to try
after all I have gone tlirougli. I shall not be
about again till I get my carriage done, and
that I intend to construct so as to drive it
with one hand, by means of a new ratchet
lever motion."
The daughter of the toy-maker, with whom
I spoke afterwards, and who was rather •* good-
looking," in the hteral sense of the word, than
beautiful, said that she could not describe how I
it was that she had learnt to plane and gauge I
the boards. It seemed to come to her all of
a sudden >- quite natural-like, she told me ;
though, she added, it was most likely her
afiiection for her poor father that made her
take to it so quick. *' I felt it deeply" she said,
** to see him take to his bed, and knew that
I alone could save him from the workhouM.
No ! I never felt tired over the work," she con-
tinued, in answer to my questions, " because
I know that it is to make him comfortable."
I should add, that I was first taken to tliis
man by the surgeon who attended him during
his long sufitering, and that gentleman not only
ftilly corroborated all I heard from his in-
genious and heroic patient, but spoke in the
highest possible terms of Jt>oth father and
daughter.
Flies.
These winged tormentors are not, like most of
our apterous enemies, calculated to excite dis-
gust and nausea when we see or speak of
them; nor do they usually steal upon us
during the silent hours of repose (though the
gnat or mosquito must be here excepted), but
are many of them very beautiful, and boldly
make their attack upon us in open day, when
we are best able to defend ourselves.
The active fly, so frequently an unbidden
guest at your table (Slouflet, 50), wliosc
delicate palate selects your choicest viands, at
one time extending his proboscis to the margin
of a drop of wine, and then gaily flying to take
a more solid repast from a pear or a peach—
now gambolling with his comrades in the air,
now gracefully carrying his furled wings "with
his taper feet — ^was but the other dny a ilis-
gusting grub, without wmgs, without legs,
without eyes, wallowing, well pleased, in the
midst of a mass of excrement.
"The common house-fly," says Kirby, "is
with us sufficiently annoying at the close of
simimer, so as to have led the celebrated Italian
Ugo Foscolo, when residing here, to call it one
of the * three miseries of bfe.' " But we know
nothing of it as a tormentor, compared with
the inhabitants of southern Eiurope, " I met,"
says Arthur Young, in his interesting Travels
through F/awce, between Pradelles and Thurjtz,
" mulberries and flies at the same time. By
the term/i>«, I mean tliose myriads of them
which form the most disagreeable circum-
stances of the southern climates. They are
the first torments in Spain, Italy, and the olive
district of France; it is not that they bite,
sting, or hurt, but they buzz, teaze, and worrj' ;
your mouth, eyes, ears, and nose are full of
them: they swarm on every eatable — fruit,
sugar, everything is attacked by them in such
myriads, that if they are not incessantly driven
away by a person who has nothing else to do,
to eat a meal is impossible. They are, ho^v-
ever, caught on prepared pai>er, and other
contrivances, with so much ease and in such
quantities, that were it not for negligence thoy
JACK BLACK, HER MAJESTY'S RATCATCHER.
?M!»^V. ^
LOKDOlf LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
25
ooiild not abonnd in iiieli mcredible quantities.
If I farmed in these countnes, I should manure
four or ftre acres eyefyjear with dead flies. I
have been much surprised that the learned
Mr. Harmer should think it odd to find, by
writers who treated of southern climates, that
driving awaj flies was of importance. Had he
been with me in Spain and in Languedoc in July
and August, he would have been very far from
thinking there was anything odd in it." —
i^Yomnfi TrmeU im France, L 208.)
It is a remarkable, and, as yet, unexplained
fact, that if nets of thread or string, with
meshes a full inch square, be stretehnl orer
the open windows of a room in summer or
autumn, when flies are the greatest nuisance,
not a single one will venture to enter from
without ; so that by this simple plan, a house
may be kept free from these pests, while the
aJjoining ones which have not had nets applied
to their windows will swarm with them. In
order, however, that the protection should be
eflident, it is neoessarv that the rooms to
which it is applied should have the hght enter
by one side only; for in those which have a
thorough light, the flies, strange to say, pass
tliroagh the meshes without scruple.
For a Ailler account of these singular facts,
the reader is referred to a paper by W. Spence,
in Trans, Bnt. Soe, vol. i. p. J, and also to one
in the same work by the Bev. £. Stanley, late
Lord Bishop of Norwieh, who, having made
some of the experiments suggested by Mr.
Spence, found that by extending over the out.
side of his windows nets of a very fine pack-
thread, with meshes one inch and a quarter to
the square, so fine and comparatively invisible
that there was no apparent diminution either
of Ught or the distant view, he waa enabled
for the remainder of the summer and autumn
to enjoy the fresh air with open windows,
without the annoyance he had previously ex-
perienced from the intrusion of flies— often so
troublesome that he was obliged on the hottest
days to forego the luxury of admitting the air
by even partially raising the sashes.
" But no sooner," he observes, " had I set
my nets than I was relieved frt)m my disagree-
able visitors. I could perceive and hear them
hovering on the other side of my barriers ; but
though they now and then settled on the
meshes, I do not recollect a single instance of
one venturing to cross the boundary."
'*Thenumberof house.flies,''he adds, ''might
be gTMtly lessened in large towns, if the stable-
dung in which their larvn are chiefly supposed
to feed were kept in pits closed by trap-doors,
so that the females could not deposit their
eggs in it. At Venice, where no horses axe
kept, it is said there are no house-flies; a
statement which I regret not having heard
before being there, that I mig^t have inquired
as to ite truth.- — {Kirby and SpeneeTi EnUm,
L 102, 8.)
This short account of flies would be ineom-,
plete without a desoxiption of their mode of
proeeeding when they regale themselves upon
a piece of loaf-sugar, and an account of the
apparatus with which the Creator haa furnished
them in order to enable them to walk on
bodies possenung smooth surfaces, and in any
position.
" It is aremark* which will be found to hold
good, both in animals and vegetables, that no
impcnrtant motion or feeling can take place
without the presence of moisture. In man,
the part of the eye which is the seat of vision
is always bedewed with moisture ; the skin is
softened with a delicate oil ; the sensitive port
of the ear is filled with a liquid; but moisture
is still more abundant in our organs of taste
and smell than in any of the other senses. In
the case of taste, moisture is supplied to oiur
mouth and tongue from sevend reservoirs
(glands) in their neighbourhood, whence pipes
are laid aod run to the mouth. The whole
surface, indeed, of the mouth and tongue, as
well as the other internal parts of our body,
give out more or less moisture; but besides
this, the month, aa we have just mentioned,
has a number of fountains expressly for its own
use. The largest of these fountains lies as
fSur o£f aa the ear on each side, and is formed
of a great number of round, soft bodies, abottt
the size of garden-peas, from each of which a
pipe goes out, and all ofthese uniting together,
form a common channel on each side. This
runs across the cheek, nearly in a line with the
lap of the ear and the comer of the mouth, and
enters the mouth opposite to the second or
third of the double teeth {molares) by a hole,
into which a hog's bristle can be introduced.
There are, besides, several other pairs of foun-
tains, in different parts adj scent, for a similar
purpose.
*' We have been thus particular in our de-
scription, in order to Illustrate an analogous
structure in insects, for they also seem to be
famished with solivsry fountains for moisten-
ing their organs of taste. One of the circum-
stances that first awakened our curiosity with
regard to insects, was the manner in which a
fly contrives to suck up through its narrow
sucker {hauMtellum) a bit of dry lump-sugor ;
for the small ciystals are not only unfitted to
pass, from their angularity, but adhere too
firmly together to be separated by any force
the insect can exert. Eager to solve tlie diffi-
culty, for there could be no doubt of the fly's
sucking the dry sugar, we watched its proceed-
ings with no httle attention ; but it was not
till we fell upon the device of placing some
sugar on the outside of a window, while we
looked through a magnifying-glass on the in-
side, that we had the satisfaction of repeatedly
witnessing a fly let fall a drop of fluid upon
the sugar, in order to melt it, and thereby
render it fit to be sucked up ; on precisely the
same principle that we moisten with saliva, in
the process of mastication, a mouthful of dry
• ''Insoct UlKMlUntet," p. U.
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
bread, to fit it for bein^ swallowed— tlie action
of the jaws, by a beautiftd eontrivance of Pro-
vidence, preparing the moistore along the
channds at the time it is most wanted.
Readers who may be disposed to think the
circumstance of the fly thus moistening a bit
of sngar fandM, may readily verify the fact
themselves in the wi^ we have described. At
the time when we made this little experiment,
we were not aware that several natmralists of
high authority had actaally discovered by dis-
section the vessels which supply the saliva in
more than one species of insect."
"In the case of their drinking fluids, like
water, saliva is not wanted; and it may be
remarked, when we drink cold water it ac-
tuaUy astringes and shuts up the openings of
the salivary pipes. Hence it is that drinking
does not quench thirst when the saliva is
rendered viscid and scanty by heat, by fatigue,
or by tlie use of stimulant food and liquor ;
and sometimes a draught of cold water, by
carrying off all the saliva from the mouth, and
at the same time astringing the orifices of the
ducts, may actually produce thirst. Ices pro-
duce this effect on many persons. It is, no
doubt, in consequence of their laborious ex-
ertions, as well as of the hot nature of their
add fluids producing similar effects, that ants
are so fond of water. We have seen one quaff*
a drop of dew almost as large as its whole
body ; and when we present those in our glass
formicaries with water, they seem quite in-
satiable in drinking it."*
Bennie, in his Imect AfisceUanie», after de-
scribing the pedestrian contrivances with which
various insects are furnished, says,f — "The
most pericct contrivance of tliis land, however,
occurs in the domestic fly (Mutca domettica),
and its congeners, as well as in several other
insects. Few can have failed to remark that
flies walk with the utmost ease along the
ceiling of a room, and no less so upon a per-
pendicular looking-glass ; and though this
were turned downwards, the flies would not
fall ofi^ but could maintain their position
undisturbed wtth their backs hanging down-
wards. The coxvjectures devised by naturalists
to account for this singular circumstance,
previous to the ascertaining of the actual
facts, are not a little amusing. * Some sup-
pose,' says the Abb4 de la Pluche, * that when
the fly marches over any polished body, on
which neither its daws nor its points can
fasten, it sometimes compresses her sponge
and causes it to evacuate a fluid, which fixes
it in such a manner as prevents its falling
without diminishing the facility of its pro-
gress ; but it is much more probable that the
sponges correspond with the fleshy balls which
accompany the daws of dogs and cats, and
that they enable the fly to proceed with a
softer pace, and contribute to tne presen-ation
of the claws, whose pointed extremities would
• " Inacct Miscellanies, " p. 38. t Ibid. p. 868.
soon be impaired without this prevention.*
{Sped, de la Nat. vol. i. p. 116.) * lu ability
to walk on glass,' says S. Shaw, * proceeds
paftly from some little ruggedness thereon,
but chiefly from a tarnish, or dirty, smoky
substance, adhering to the surface; so that,
though the shaip points on the sponges can-
not penetrate the surface of the glass, it may
easily catch hold of the tarnish.' {Nature
DispL vol. iiL p. 98, Lond. 1823.) But," adds
Bennie, *'it is singular tbat none of these
fanders ever took the trouble to ascertain the
existence of either a gluten squeezed out by
the fly, or of the smoky tarnish on glass. Kveu
the shrewd lUaumur could not give a satis-
factory explanation of the circumstance.*'
** The eariiest correct notion on this curious
subject was entertained by Derham, who, in
mentioning the provision made for insects that
hang on smooth surfaces, says, * I might here
name divers flies and other insects who, besides
their sharp-hooked nails, have also skinny
palms to their feet, to enable them to stick to
glass and other smooth bodies by means of
the pressure of the atmosphere — after tlie
manner as I have seen boys carry heavy stones
with only a wet piece of leather clapped on
the top of the stone.' {Phy*ico.Thcology^ vol.
ii. p. 194, note ft, 11th edit.) The justly-
celebrated Mr. White, of Selbornc, apparently
without the aid of microscopical investigation,
adopted Derham's opinion, adding the in-
teresting illustration, that in the decline of
the year, when the flies crowd to windows and
become sluggish and torpid, they are scarcely
able to lift their legs, which seem glued to the
glass, where many actually stick till they die ;
whereas they are, during warm weather, so
brisk and alert, that they easily overcome the
pressure of the atmosphere.'* — {Nat, Hi$t. of
Selbamef vol. ii. p. 274. )
" This singular mechanism, however," con-
tinues Bennie, "is not peculiar to flies, for
some animals a hundred times as large can
walk upon glass by the same means." St.
Pierre mentions <* a very small lizard, about a
finger's length, which cUmbs along the walls,
and even along glass, in pursuit of flies and
other insects " ( Voyage to the Isle of France,
p. 73) ; and Sir Joseph Banks noticed another
lizard, named the Gecko {Lacerta Oecha,'Lniv.\
which could walk against gravity, and which
made him desirous of having the subject
thoroughly investigated. On mentioning it
to Sir Everard Home, he and Mr. Bauer
commenced a series of researches, by which
they proved incontrovertibly, that in climbing
upon glass, and walking idong the ceilings
with the back downwards, a vacuum is pro-
duced by a particular apparatus in the feet,
sufficient to cause atmospheric pressure upon
their exterior surface.
" The apparatus in the feet of the fly con-
sists of two or three membranous suckers,
connected with the last joint dt the foot by a
narrow neck, of a funnel-shai>e, immediately
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
27
under the base of each jaw, and moyable in
all directions. These suckers are convex
aboTe and hollow below, the edges being
margined with minute serratures, and the
hollow portion covered with down. In order
to produce the vacuum and the pressure, these
membranes are separated and expanded, andi
when the fly is about to lift its foot, it brings
them together, and folds them up, as it were,
between the two claws. By means of a com-
mon microscope, these interesting movements
may be observed when a fly is confined in a
wine-glass." {Phil, Tram, for 1816, p. 825.)
"It must have attracted the attention of the
most incurious to see, during the summer,
swarms of flies crowding about the droppings of
cattle, so as almost to conceal the nuisance,
and presenting instead a display of their
shining corslets and twinkling wings. The
object of all this busy bustle is to deposit their
eggs where their prt^eny may find abundant
food ; and the final cause is obviously both to
remove the nuisance, and to provide abundant
food for birds and other animals which prey
upon flies or their larvs.
*'The same remarks apply with no less force
to the * blow-flies,' which deposit their eggs, and
in some cases their young, upon carcases. The
common house fly (the female of which gene-
rally lays 144 eggs) belongs to the first division,
the natural food of its larvss being horse-dung ;
consequently, it is always most abundant in
houses in the vicinity of stables, cucumber-
beds, &c, to which, when its numbers become
annoying, attention should be primarily di-
rected, rather than having recourse to fly-
waters." — (Bekvis's Insect Miscellany, p. 205.)
Besides the common house-fly, and the other
genera of the dipterous order of insects, there
is another not unfrequent intruding visitor of
the fly kind which we must not omit to men-
tion, commonly known as the blue-bottle
{Musca vomitoria, Linn.). The disgust with
which these insects are generally viewed will
perhaps be diminished when our readers are
informed that they are destined to perform a
very important part in the economy of nature.
Amongst a number of the insect tribe whose
office it is to remove nuisances the most dis-
gusting to the eye, and the most offensive to
the smell, the varieties of the blue-bottle fly
belong to the most useful.
" When the dead carcases of animals begin
to grow putrid, every one knows what dreadful
miasmata exhale from them, and taint the air
we breathe. But no sooner does life depart
from the body of any creature — at least from
any which, from its size, is likely to become a
nuisance — than myriads of different sorts of
insects attack it, and in various ways. First
come the histert, and pierce the skin. Next
follow Che Jtesh'jUies, covering it with millions
of eggs, whence in a day or two proceed in-
numerable devourers. An idea of the despatch
made by these gourmands may be gained from
the oomhined consideration of their numbers,
voracity, and rapid development. The larvaa
of many flesh-£Qes, as Bedi ascertained, will in
twenty-four hours devour so much food, and
gnaw so quickly, as to increase their weight
two hundred-fold I In five days after bemg
hatched they arrive at their full growth and
size, which is a remarkable instance of the care
of Providence in fitting them for the part they
are destined to act ; for if a longer time was
required for their growth, their food would not
be a fit aliment for them, or they would be
too long in removing the nuisance it is given
them to dissipate. Thus we see there was
some ground for linnseus's assertion, under
Musca vomitoria, that three of these flies will
devour a dead horse as quickly as would a
lion." — (KmBY and Spence, i.)
The following extraordinary fact, given by
Kirby and Spence, concerning the voracity of
the larvae of Uie blow-fly, or blue-bottle {Musca
vomitoria)y is worth wMe appending : —
" On Thursday, June 25th, died at As-
bomby, Lincolnshire, John Page, a pauper
belonging to Silk-Willoughby, under circum-
stances truly singular. He being of a rest-
less disposition, and not choosing to stay in
the parish workhouse, was in the habit of
strolling about the neighbouring rillages, sub-
sisting on the pittsmce obtained from door to
door. The support he usually received from
the benevolent was bread and meat ; and after
satisfying the cravings of nature, it was his
custom to deposit the surplus provision, par-
ticularly the meat, between his shirt and skin.
Having a considerable portion of this provision
in store, so deposited, he was taken rather
unweU, and laid himself down in a field in
the parish of Stredington; when, from the
heat of the season at that time, the meat
speedily became putrid, and was of course
struck by the flies. These not only proceeded
to devour the inanimate pieces of flesh, but
also literally to prey upon the living substance;
and when the wretched man was accidentally
found by some of the inhabitants, he was so
eaten by the maggots, that his death seemed
inevitable. After clearing away, ag well as
they were able, these shocking vermin, those
who found Page conveyed him to Asbomby,
and a surgeon was immediately procured, who
declared that his body was in such a state that
dressing it must be little short of instantaneous
death ; and, in fact, the man did survive the
operation but for a few hours. When first
found, and again when examined by the sur-
geon, he presented a sight loathsome in the
extreme. White maggots of enormous size
were crawling in and upon his body, which
they had most shockingly mangled, and the
removal of the external ones served only to
render the sight more horrid." Kirby adds,
" In passing through this parish last spring, I
inquired of the maU-coachman whether he had
heard this story ; and he said the fact was well
known."
I One species of fly infests our houses
80
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
*' When it's a bad time for silling the papers,
such OS a wet, could day, then most of the fly-
paper boys goes out with brushes, cleaning
boots. Most of the boys is now out hopping.
They goes reglar every year after the sason is
give over for tlies.
**The stuff as they puts on the paper is
made out of boiled oil and turpentine and resin.
It's seldom as a fly lives more tlian five
minutes after it gets on the paper, and tlien
it's as dead as a house. The blue-bottles is
tougher, but they don't last long, though they
keeps on fizzing as if they was tiding to make
a hole in the paper. The stuff is only p'isonons
for flies, though I never heard of any body as
ever eat a fly-paper."
The second lad I chose ftrom nmong the
group of applicants was of a middle age, and
although the noisiest when among his com-
panions, had no sooner entered the room with
me, than his whole manner changed. He sat
himself down, bent u^ like a monkey, and
flcarcely ever turned his eyes Arom me. He
seemed as nervous as if in a witness-box, and
kept playing with his grubby fingers till he
had almost made them white.
** They calls me * Curley.' I come from
Ireland too. I'm about fourteen year, and have
been in this line now, sir, about five year. I
goes about the borders of the country. We
general takes up the line about the beginning
of June, that is, when we gets a good summer.
When we gets a good close dull day like this,
we does pretty well, but when we has first one
day hot, and then another rainy and could, a'
coiurse we don't get on so well.
•* The most I sould was one day when I went
to Uxbridge, and then I sould a gross and a half.
I paid half-a-crown a gross for them. I was
living with mother then, and she give me
the money to buy 'em, but I had to bring lier
back again all as I took. I al'us give her all
I makes, except sixpence as I wants for my
dinner, which is a kipplo of pen'orth of bread
and cheese and a pint of beer. I sould that
gross and a Iialf I spoke on at a ha'penny each,
and I took nine shillings, so that I mside five
and sixpence. But Uien I'd to leave London
at three or four o'clock in the morning, and to
stop out till twelve o'clock at night I used
to live out at Hammersmith then, and come
up to St. Giles's every morning and buy the
papers. I had to rise by half-past two in the
morning, and I'd get back again to Hammer-
smith by about six o'clock. I couldn't sill
none on the road, 'cos the shops wasn't open.
"The flies is getting bad everj' summer.
This year they a'n't half so good as they was
last year or the year before. I'm sure I dont
know why there aint so many, but they aintso
plentiful like. The best year was three year
ago. I know that by the quantity as my cus-
tomers bought of me, and in three days the
papers was swarmed with flies.
" I've got regular customers, where I calls
two or three times a week to 'em. If I was to
walk my rounds over I could at the lowest sell
from six to eight dozen at ha'penny each at
wonst If it was nice wither, like to-day, so tliat
it wouldn't come wet on me, I sliould make ten
shillings a- week regular, but it depends on the
wither. If I was to put my profits by, I'm
siure I should find I make more than six
shillings a- week, and nearer eight. But the
season is only for three months at most, and
then we takes to boot-cleaning. Near all the
poor boys about here is fly-paper silling in the
hot weather, and boot-cleaners at other times.
" Shops buys the most of us in London. In
Bamet I sell sometimes as much as six or
seven dozen to some of the grocers as buys to
sell again, but I don't let them have them only
when I can't get rid of 'em to t'other customers.
Butchers is very fond of the papers, to catch
the blue-bottles as gets in their moat, though
there is a few butchers as have said to me,
* Oh, go away, they draws the flics more than
they ketches 'em.' Clothes-shops, again, is
very fond of 'em. I can't tell why they is fond
of 'em, but I suppose 'cos the flies spots the
goods.
" There's lots of boys going silling * ketch
'em alive oh's' from Golden-lane, and White-
chapel, and the Borough. There's lots, too,
comes out of Gray's-iim-lane and St. Giles's.
Near every boy who has nothing to do goes
out with fly-papers. Perhaps it aint that the
flies is failed off that we don't sill so many
papers now, but because there's so many boys
at it."
The most intelligent and the most gentle in
his demeanour was a little boy, who was
scarcely tall enough to look on the table at
which I was writing. If his face had been
washed, he would have been a pretty-looking
lad ; for, despite tlie black marks made by his
knuckles during his last fit of cr}-ing, he had
large expressive eyes, and his featiunes were
round and plump, as though he were accus-
tomed to more food than his companions. ^
Whilst taking his statement I was inter-
rupted by the entrance of a woman, whose
fears had been aroused by the idea that I
belonged to the Ragged School, and had come
to look after the scholars. '* It's no good
you're coming here for him, he's off hopping
to-morrow with his mother, as has asked me
to look after him, and it's only your saxpence
he's wanting."
It was with great difficulty that I could get
rid of this lady's company; and, indeed, so
great appeared to be the fear in the court that
Uie object of my visit was to prevent the young
gentlemen iroxn making their harvest trip into
^e coimtry,- that a murmuring crowd began
to assemble round the house where I was,
determined to oppose me by force, should I
leave the premises accompanied by any of the
youths.
*' I've been longer at it than that last boy,
though I'm only getting on for thirteeif, and
he's older than I'm; 'oos I'm little and he'i
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
81
big* getting a man. But I can sell them quite
as w^ as he can, and sometimes better, for
I can holler out just as loud, and I've got
reg'lar places to go to. I was a very little
fellow when I first went out with them, but I
could sell them pretty well then, sometimes
three or four dozen a^daj. I've got one place,
in a stable, where I can sell a dozen at a time
to countrypeople.
^ I calls out in the streets, and I goes into
the shops, too, and calls out, * Ketch 'em alive,
ketch 'em alive ; ketch all the nasty black-
beetles, blue -bottles, and flies; ketch 'em from
teazing the baby's eyes.' That's what most
oi us boys cries out Some boys who is stupid
only says, * Ketch 'em alive,' but people don't
buy so well from them.
" Up in St Giles's there is a lot of fly-boys,
but they're a bad set, and wUl fling mud at
gentlemen, and some prigs the gentlemen's
pockets. Sometimes, if I sells more than a
big boy, hell get mad and hit me. He'll
tell me to give him a halfpenny and he won't
touch me, and that if I don't hell kill mo.
Some of die boys takes an open fly-paper, and
makes me look another way, and then they
sticks the ketch 'em alive on my face. The
stuff won't come off without soap and hot
water, and it goes black, and looks like mud.
One day a boy had a broken fly.paper, and I
was talung a drink of water, and he come be-
hind me and slapped it up in my face. A
gentleman as saw him give him a crack with
a stick and me twopence. It takes yoiur
breath away, until a man comes and takes it
off. It all sticked to my hair, and I couldn't
rack (comb) right for some time.
** When we are selling papers we have to
walk a long way. Some boys go as for as
Croydon, and all about the countr}'; but I
don't go mueh further than Copenhagen-fields,
and straight down that way. I don't like
going along with other boys, they take yoiu*
customers away ; for perhaps they'll sell 'em
at three a-pennj to 'em, and spoil the cus-
tomers for you. I won't go with the )>ig boy
you saw 'cos he's such a blackgeyard ; when
he's in the country hell go up to a lady and
say, * Want a fly-paper, marm ? ' and if she
says ' No,' hell perhaps job his head in her
face— butt at her like.
** When there's no flies, and tlie ketch 'em
alive's is out then I goes tumbling. I can
torn a cat'enwheel over on one hand. I'm
going to-morrow to the country, harvesting
and hopping — for, as we says, ' Go out hop-
ping, come in jumping.' We start at three
o'cioek to-morrow, and we shall get about
twdve o'clock at night at Dead Man's Bam.
It was left for poor people to sleep in, and
a man there was buried in a comer. The
man had got six farms of hops ; and if his
son hadn't buried him there, he wouldn't have
bad none of the riches.
** The greatest number of fly-papers I've
•old in a day is about eight dozen. I never
sells no more than that; I wish I could.
People won't buy 'em now. WTien I'm at it
I makes, taking one day with another, about
ten shilling a- week. You see, if I sold eight
dozen, Td make four shillings. I sell them
at a penny each, at two for three-ha'pence,
and Uiree for twopence. When they get.s
stale I sells 'em at three a-penny. I always
begin by asking a penny each, and perhaps
they'll say, * Give me two for three-ha'pence.'
m say, ' Can't, ma'am,' and then they pulls
out a purse full of money and gives a penny.
** The police is very kind to us, and don't
interfere with us. If they sees another boy
hitting us theyll take off their belts and hit
*em. Sometimes I've sold a ketch 'em alive
to a policeman ; hell fold it up and put it in
his pocket to take home with him. Perhaps
he's got a kid, and the flies teazes its eyes.
" Some ladies like to buy fly-cages better
than ketch 'em alive's, because sometimes
when they're putting 'em up they falls in their
faces, and then they screams."
The Fly-paper Makep..
In a small attic-room, in a house near Drury-
lane, I found the *' catch 'em alive " manufac-
turer and his family busy at their trade.
Directly I entered the house where I Imd
been told he lodged, I knew that I had come
to the right address ; for the staircase smelt
of tui-pontine as if it had been newly painted,
the odour growing more and more powerful
as I ascended.
The little room where the man and his
family worked was as hot as an oven; for
although it was in tlie heat of summer, still
his occupation forced him to have a tire
burning for the piUT^ose of melting and
keeping fluid the different ingredients he
spread upon his papers.
When I opened the door of his room, I was
at first puzzled to know how I should enter
the apartment ; for the ceiling was completely
hidden by the papers which had been hung
up to dry from the many strings stretched
across the place, so that it resembled a washer-
woman's back-yard, with some thousands of red
pocket-handkerchiefs suspended in the air.
I could see the legs of the manufacturer
walking about at tlie fuilher end, but the
other part of his body was hidden from me.
On his cr3ing, "Come in ! " I had to duck
my head down, and creep under the forest of
paper strips rustling above us.
The most curious characteristic of the apai-t-
ment was the red colour with which every-
thing was stained. The walls, floor, and
tables wero all smeared with ochre, like the
pockets of a drover. The papers that were
drjing were as red as the pages of a gold-leaf
book. This curious appearance was owing
to part of the process of "catch 'em ali%e"
making consisting in first covering tlie paper
i
(»
LOffDOiT lABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
-with coloured sixe, to ^rent the sticky solu-
tion from sosking iato it.
The room was so poorly fiiniished, that it
was evident the trade was not a lacrative one.
An old Dntch clock, with a pendninm as long
as a walking-stickf was the only thing in the
dwelling which was not indispensable to the
calling. The chimneypiece — that test of
** well-to-do •* in the houses of the poorer
classes — had not a single ornament npon it.
' The long board on which the family worked
serred likewise as the table for the family
meals, and the food they ate had to be laid
upon the red-smeared surface. There was
but one chair, and that the wife occupied;
and when the father or son wished to sit
down, a tub of size was drawn out with its
trembling contents ftom under the work-
table, and on this they rested themselves.
**We are called in the trade," said the
father, •* fly-paper makers. They used to put
a nice name to the things once, and call 'em
Egyptian fly-papers, but now they use merely
the word * fly-papers,' or * fly-destroyers,' or
* fly-catchers,' or * catch 'em alive, oh.*
" I never made any calculation about flies,
and how often they breeds. You see, it
depends upon so many things how they're
produced: for instance, if I was to put my
papers on a dung-heap, I might catch some
thousands ; and if I was to put a paper in an
ice-well, I don't suppose I should catch one.
** I know the flies produce some thousands
each, because if you look at a paper well
studded over with flies, you'll see — that is, if
you look very carefully — where each fly has
blown, as we call it, there'll be some millions
on a paper, small grubs or little mites, like ;
for whilst struggling the fly shoots forth the
blows, and eventually these blows would turn
to flies.
•* I have been at fly-catcher making for the
last nine years. It's almost impossible to
make any calculation as to the number of
papers I make during the season, and this is
the season. If it's fine weather, then flies
are plentiful, cmd the lads who sell the papers
in the streets keep me busy ; but if it's at all
bad weather, then they turn their attention
to blacking boots.
"It's quite a speculation, my business is,
for all depends upon the lads coming to me to
huy, and there's no certainty beyond. I every
season expect that these lads who bought
papers of me the last year will come back and
deal with me again. First of all, these lads
will come for a dozen, or a kipple of dozen, of
papers; and so it goes on till perhaps they
are able to sell half a gross aday, and then
from that they will, if the weather is fine, get
up to ten dozen, or perhaps a gross, but
seldom or never over that.
" In tho very busiest and hottest time as is,
I have, for about two or three weeks, made as i
many as thirty-six gross of papers in a week.
Wo generally begins about the end of June or I
the beginning of July, and then for five or
six weeks we goes on very busy ; after that it
dies out, and people gets tired of laying out
their money.
"It's almost impossible to get at any eal-
culation of the quantity I make. You see, to-
day I haven't sold a gross, and yesterday I
didn't sell more than a gross; and the last
three days I haven't sold a single paper, it's
been so wet. But last week I sold more than
five gross a-day, — it varies so. Oh yes, I
sell more than a hundred gross during the
season. Yon may say, that for a month I
make about five gross a-day, and that — taking
six days to the week, and thirty days to the
month — makes a hundred and thirty gross:
and then for another month I do about three
gross a-day, and that, at the same calculation,
makes seventy-eight gross, or altogether one
hundred and ninety-eight gross, or 28,512
single papers, and that is as near as I can
teU you.
"Sometimes our season lasts more than
two months. You may reckon it from the
latter end of June to the end of August, or if
the weather is very hot, then wo begins early
in June, and runs it into September. The
prime time is when the flies gets heavy and
stings — that's when the papers sells most.
"There's others in tlie business besides
myself; they lives up in St. Giles's, and they
sells 'em rather cheaper. At one time the
shopkeepers used to make the papers. When
they first commenced, they was sold at two-
pence and threepence and fourpence a-piece,
but now they're down to three a-penny in the
streets, or a halfpenny for a single one. The
boys when they've got back the money they
paid me for their stock, will sell what papers
they have left at onything they'll fetch, be-
cause the papers gets dusty and spiles with
the dust.
" I use the ver>' best * Times ' paper for my
* catch 'em alives.' I gets them kept for me
at stationers' shops and liberaries, and such-
like. I pays threepence a-pound, or twenty-
eight shillings the hundred weight. That's a
long price, but you must have good paper if
you want to make a good article. I could get
paper at twopence a-pound, but then it's only
tho cheap Sunday papers, and they're too
slight.
"The morning papers are the best, and will
stand the pulling in opening the papers ; for
we always fold the destroyers with the sticky
sides together when finished. The composi-
tion I use is very stiff; if the paper is bad,
they tear when you force them open for use.
Some in the trade cut up their newspapers
into twelve for the full sheet, but I cut mine
up into only eight.
" The process is this. First of all the paper
is sized and coloured. We colour them by
putting a little red lead into the size, because
if the sticky side is not made apparent the
people wont buy 'em, 'cause they might spile
LONDON^ LABOUR AND THE LOSDOlt POOn.
88
the fhmitnK by pntthig the composition side
dovntrards. After sizing the papers, they are
hung np to dry, and then the compo<^ition is
laid on. This eomposiUon is a secret, and
I*in obligated to keep it so, for of conrsc all
the boys who come here would be tiyinj^ to
make em, and not only would it iigore me,
bm I'd warrant they'd izgure theirseWes as
well, by setting the house on fire. You may
say that my c-omposition is made from a mix-
tion of rcffinous substances. Everything in
making it depends upon using the proper pro-
portions. There's some men who deal with
tae who know the substances to make the
composition firom, but because they haven't
got the eiAct proportions of the quantities,
they can*t make it right.
'*The great difSeul^ in making them is
diying the papeis after they are sized. Some
di^s irhen it':9 fine they'll dry as fast as you
can hang 'em up almost, and other days they
▼out ilry at all — in damp weather 'specially.
There Is some makers who sizes and colours
their ]iflpers in the winter, and then puts 'em
to diy ; and when the summer comes, then
they has only to put on the composition.
" rm a veiy quick hand in the trade (if you
can eon it one, for it only lasts three mimths
at most, and is a very nncertain one, too ; in-
deed, I don't know what you can style our
lu«ines3 — it ain't a purfeitsion and it ain't a
trade, I supposo it*s a calling) : Pm a quick
hand I say at roreading the composition, and
I can, talong the day throngli, do about two
gross an hour —that is, if the papers was sized
ready for me ; but as it Is, ha\ing to size 'em
first, I cant do more than three gross a-day
myself, but with my wife helping me we can
do such a thin^ as five gross a-day.
** It's most important that the size should
diy. Now tho2>e papers (producing some
covered with a dead red touting of the size
preparation) have been done four days, and
yet they're not dry, although to you they ap-
pear so' but I can tell that they feel tough,
uid not crisp as they ought to. "When the
jize is damp it mcdces them adhere to one
an'.tlier when I am laying the stuft'on, and it
^TTtiK through and makes them hea\7, and
then they tears when I opens thom.
** When Tm working, I first size the entire
J^heet. We put it on the table, and then we
La^e a big brush and plaster it over. Then I
pives it to my wife, and she hangs it up on a
line. We can hang up a gross at a timo horo,
i and then the room is pretty fuD, and must
seem strange to anybody coming in, thouglf to
I as it's ordinary enough."
< The man was about to exhibit to us his
method of proceeding, when his attention was
drawn off by a smell which the mo\ing of the
' diflerent pots had caused. " How strong this
size smells, Charlotte !" he said to his wife.
** lis the damp and heat of the room does
ii," the wife replied; and then the narrative
^ent on.
"Before putting on the Composition I cut
up the papers into slips as fast as possiUe^
that don't take long."
" We can out 'em in first style," interrupted
the wife.
" I can eut up four gross an hour,** said a
boy, who was present.
" I don't think you could, Johnny," said the
man. ** Two gross is nearer the mark, to cut
'em evenly."
"It's only seventy sheets,'' remonstrated
the lad, " and that's only a little more than
one a minute."
A pile of entire newspapers was here
brought out, and all of them coloured r^d on
one side, like the leaves of the books in which
gold-leaf is kept.
Judging from the trial at cutting which fol*
lowed, we should conclude that the lad was
correct in his calculation.
" When we put on the composition," conti-
nued the catch-'em -alive maker, " we has the
cut slips piled up in a tall mound like, and
then we have a big brush, and dips it in the
pot of stuff" and rubs it in; we folds each
catcher up as we does it, like a thin slice of
bread and butter, and put it down. As I said
before, at merely putting on tlie composition
I could do about two gross nn hour.
" My price to the boys is twoi>ence-halfi)enny
a dozen, or two-and-sixpcnce a gross, and out
of that I don't get more than nrnepence
profit, for the paper, the resin, and the firing
for melting the size and composition, all takes-
oflf the profit.
" This season nearly all my customers have
been boys. Last season I had a few men who
dealt with me. The principal of tliose who
buys of me is Irish. A boy will sometimes
sell his papers for a halfpenny each, but the
usual pric^ is tlu*eo a-peuny. Many of the
blackiug-boys deal with me. If it's a fine day
it don't suit them at boot-cleaning, and tlieu
they'll run out with my papers ; and so they
have two trades to Uieir backs— one for fme,
and the other for wet weatlier.
'* Tlie first man as was the inventor of these
fly-papers kept a barber's shop in St. Andrew-
street, Seven Dials, of tlie name of Greenwood
or Greenfinch, I forget which. I expect he
diskivered it by accident, using vaniish and
stuff, for stale varnish has nearly the same
effect as our composition. Ho mado 'em and
sold 'em at first at threepence and fourpence
apiece. Then it got down to a penny. He
sold the receipt to some other parties, and
then it got out through then* having to employ
men to help 'em. I worked for a party as
made 'em, and then I set to work making
•em for myself, and afterwards liawking them.
They was a greater novelty then than they are
now, and sold pretty well. Then men in the
streets, who had notliing to do, used to ask me
where I bouglit 'em, and then I used to give
•em my own address, and they'd come and find
me,"
Xo. l.VIl.
\>
34
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
Of Buo8 and Fleas.
A NUXESOUB family of a large order of insecto
is but too well known, botJh in gardens and
honseff, tinder the general name of Bugs
{Cimieidm) most, if not all, of the species
being distinguished by an exceedingly disa-
greeable smell, particularly when pressed or
braised.
The sacking instrument of these insects
has been so admirably dissected and deli-
neated by M. Savigny, in his ** Theory of the
Mouth of Six-legged {hexapod) Insects,***
that we cannot do better than follow so excel-
lent a g^de.
The sucker is contained in a sheath, and
this sheath is composed of four pieces, which,
according to Savigny's theory, represent an
under-lip much prolonged. The edges bend
downwards, and form a canal receiving the
four bristles, which he supposes to correspond
with the two mandibles and the two lower
jaws. It is probable that the two middle of
these bristles act as piercers, while the other
two, being curved at the extremity (though
not at all times naturaUy so), assist in the
process of suction.
The plant-bugs are all ftimished with
wings and membranous wing-cases, many of
them being of considerable size, and decked
in showy colours. These differ in all those
points firom their congener, the bed-bug
{Cimex lectulariui), which is small, without
wings, and of a dull uniform brown. The
name is of Welsh origin, being derived firom
the same root as 6iiy-bear, and hence the pas-
Bage in the Psalms, "thou shalt not be afraid
for tKe terror by night," f is rendered in Mat-
theVs Bible, **thoa shalt Dot nede to be
afraide of any bugs by night.**
In earlier times this insect was looked upon
with no little fear, no doubt because it was not
so abundant as at present '^In the year
1503," says Mouffet, ** Dr. Penny was called
in great haste to a little village called Mort-
lake, near the Thames, to visit two noblemen
who were much fiightened by the appearance
of bug-bites, and were in fear of I know not
what contagion; but when the matter was
known, and the insects caujght, he laughed
them out of all fear."{ This fact, of course,
disproves the statement of Southall, that bugs
were not known in England before 1670.
Linnieus was of opinion, however, that the
bug was not originally a native of Europe, but
had been imported from America. Be this as
it may, it seems to thrive but too well in our
climate, though it multiplies less in Britain
than in the warmer regions of the Continent,
where it is also said to grow to a larger size,
and to bite more keenly. This insect, it is
said, is never seen in Ireland.§
** Commerce," says a learned entomologist,
« with many good things, has also introduced
• "UkA. Anim. nna Vert€br»t" i. M.
t P«. xcL 5. X '* Theatr. Intect." 270.
I J.B.
amongst us many great evils, of which noxious
insects form no small part; and one of her
worst presents was, doubtless, the disgusting
animals called bugs. They seem, indeed,*'
he adds, '* to have been productive of greater
alarm at first than misdiief, — at least, if we
may judge fh)m the change of name which
took place upon their becoming common.
Their original English name was ChincKe, or
WaU-loM»e; and the term bug^ which is a
Celtic word, signifying a ghost or goblin, was
applied to them after Ray's time, most pro-
bably because they were considered as 'terrors
by night Hence our English word bug-bear.
The word in this sense often occurs in Shak-
speare. Winter's TaU, act iii. so. 2, 3 ; Henry FT.
act V. sc. 2 ; Handet^ act v. sc. 2. See Douce'ff
Illustrationt of Shakspeare, i, B29r
Even in our own island these obtrusive in-
sects often banish sleep. " The night," says
Goldsmith, in his Animated NaturCy ** is usually
the season when the wretched have rest firom
their labour ; but this seems the only season
when the bug issues from its retreats to make
its depredations. By day it lurks, like a rob-
ber, in the most secret parts of the bed, takes
the advantage of evexy chink and cranny to
make a secure lodgment, and contrives its
habitation with so much art that it is no easy
matter to discover its retreat. It seems to
avoid the light with great cunning, and even if
candles be kept burning, this formidable in-
sect will not issue fi'om its hiding-place. But
when darkness promises security, it then
issues from every comer of the bed, drops
trom the tester, crawls from behind the arras»
and travels with great assiduity to the un^
happy patient, who vainly wishes for rest. It
is generally vain to destroy one only, as thero:
are hundieds more to revenge their compa-
Qion*s fate; so that the person who thus ia
subject to be bitten (some individuals are ex-
empt), remains the whole night like a sentinel
upon duty, rather watching the approach of
tesh invaders than inviting the pleasing ap-
proaches of sleep." *
Mouffet assures us, that against these ene-
mies of our rest in the night our mercifiil God
bath furnished us with remedies, which wa
may fetch out of old and new -writers, either
to drive them away or kill them.f The fol-
lowing is given as Uie best poison for bugs, by
Mr. Brande, of the Boyal Institution: — Re-
duce on ounce of corrosive sublimate (p^-
chloride of mercury) and one ounce of white
arsenic to a fine powder; mix with it one
ouoee of muriate of ammonia in powder, two
oimces each of oil of turpentine and yellow
wax, and eight ounces of olive oil; put all
these into a pipkin, placed in a pan of boiling
water, and when the wax is melted, stir the
whole, till cold, in a mortar .t A strong solu-
tion of corrosive sublimate, indeed, applied as
a wash, is a most efficacious bug-poison.
* Goldsmith's "Animat Natun
t " Theatr. InMot" X '
Nature," iv. IM.
« Materia Uedioa," Index.
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
35
Though most people dislike this insect,
others haye been known to regard it with
protecting care. One gentleman would never
snfler the bugs to be disturbed in his house,
or his bedsteads removed, till, in the end, they
swarmed to an incredible degree, crawling up
even the walls of his drawing-room ; and after
his death millions were found in his bed and
chamber furniture.*
In the Banian hospital, at Snrat, the over,
seers are said ftequently to hire beggars from
the streets, at a stipulated sum, to pass the
night among bugs and other vermin, on the
express condition of suffering them to ei^oy
Iheir feast without molestation.f
The bed-bug is not the only one of its con-
geners which preys upon man. St Pierre
mentions a bug foimd in the Mauritius, the
bite of which is more venomous than the sting
of a scorpion, being succeeded by a swelling
a3 big as the egg of a pigeon, which continues
for four or five days.t Bay tells us that his
friend Willonghby had suffered severe tempo-
rary pain, in the same way, from a water-bug.
{Kotoneeia glauca^ Linn.) §
The winged insects of the order to which
the bed-bug belongs often inflict very painful
wounds, and it is even stated, upon good au-
thority, that an insect of the order, commonly
known in the West Indies by the name of the
wtuel-hwfy can communicate an electric shock
to the person whose flesh it touches. The
late Major-General Davies, ILA.. (weU known
as a most accurate observer of nature and
an indefatigable collector of her treasures, as
well as a most admirable painter of them),
hadng taken up this animal and placed it upon
his hand, assures us that it gave him, with its
leg«t, a con.siderable shock, as if from an elec-
trie jar, which he felt as high as his shoulders ;
and then dropping the creature, he observed
six marks upon his hand where the six feet
had stood.
Bugs are very voracious, and seem to bite
most furiously in the autumn, as if deter-
mined to feast themselves before they retire to
their winter quarters.
There is another pernicious bed insect —
the flea {Pulex trntons, Linn.), which, being
without wings, some of our readers may sup.
^ose to be nearly allied to the bed-bug, though
u docs not belong even to the same order, but
to a new one {Aphanipleray Kibbt), establish,
ed on the principle that the wings are obsole-
scent or inoonspicnous.
Fleas, it may be worth remarking, are not
an of one species ; those which infest animals
and birds differing in many particulars from the
eommon bed-flea {Pulex irrilans). As many
AS twelve distinct sorts of fleas have been
hand in Britain alone.|] The most annoying
* Nicholscm** " Joamal," zrli. 40.
f Forbea» "Oriental Mem." L
t "Voyage to the Ma of Franco."
f "Hirt. Ineect.'* 68.
I •* luaect Tkanalionnatione,** p. 893.
species, however, is, fortunately, notindige-
nous, being a native of the tropical latitudes,
and variously named in the West Indies, chi-
goe, jigger, nigua, tungua, and pique {Pulex
T^entiransy Linn). According to Stedman, " this
IS a kind of small sand-flea, which gets in be-
tween the skin and the flesh without being felt,
and generally under the ntdls of the toes,
where, while it feeds, it keeps growing till it be-
comes of the size of a pea, causing no further
pain thMi a disagreeable itching. In process
of time its operation appears in the form of a
small bladder, in which are deposited thou-
sands of eggs, or nits, and which, if it breaks,
produce so many young chigoes, which in
course of time create running ulcers, often of
very dangerous consequence to the patient. So
much so, indeed, that I knew a soldier, the
soles of whose feet were obliged to be cut a-'
way before he could recover; and some men
have lost their limbs by amputation, nay, even
their lives, by having neglected, in time, to
root out these abominable vermin. Walton
mentions that a Capuchin friar, in order to
study the history of the chigoe, permitted a
colony of them to establish themselves in his
feet : but before he could accomplish his ob-
ject his feet mortified and had to be amputa-
ted.* No wonder that Cardan calls the insect
" a very shrewd plague."+
Several extraordinary feats of strength have
been recorded of fleas by various authors, J
and we shall here give our own testimony
to a similar fact. At the fair of Cliarlton, in
Kent, 1830, we saw a man exhibit three*
fleas harnessed to a carriage in the form
of an onmibus, at least fifty times their
own bulk, which they pulled along with
great ease ; another pair drew a chariot. The
exhibitor showed the whole first through a
magnifying glass, and then to the naked eye,
so that we were satisfied there was no decep-
tion. From the fleas being of large size they
were evidently all females. §
It is rarely, however, that we meet with
fleas in the way of amusement, unless we are
of the singular humour of the old lady men*
tioned by Kirby and Spence, who had a liking
to them ; " because," said she, " I think they
are the prettiest little merry things in the
world ; I never saw a dull flea in all my life."
When Ray and Willoughby were travelling,
they found " at Venice and Augsburg fleas for
sale, and at a small price too, decorated with
steel or silver collars round their necks. When
fleas are kept in a box amongst wool or cloth,
in a warm place, and fed once a-day, they wil)
live a long time. When these insects begin
to suck they erect themselves almost perpen-
dicularly, thrusting their sucker, which origi-
nates in the middle of the forehead, into the
skin. The itching is not felt immediately,
• Walton'e "Hiepaniola."
t ••8ubtnia.'*Ub. ix.
X " Insect Transformationfl,'* p. 180.
f Introduotion, i. 102.— J. B.
ao
LOXDON LABOUR AXD THE LONDON JPOOB.
l»ut a litilo nften*'ards. As soon as they are
llill of blood, they begin to void a portion of
it ; and thus, if permitted, they will continue
for many hours sucking and voiding. Aitt r
the first ia'hing no uneasiness is subsequently
felL )Vil!oughby had a flaa that lived for
three months, sucking in this manner the blood
of his hand; it was at Isngth killed by the
cold of i^inter." ♦
According to Mouffist's account of the suck-
er of the Ilea, " tlie point of his nib is some-
what hai'd, tliat he may make it enter the bet-
ter ; and it must necessarily be hollow, that he
may suck out the blood and carry it in." +
Modem authors, particularly Straus and Kir-
by^ show that Hosel was mistaken in supposing
this sucker to consist of two pieces, as it is
reall V made up of seven. First, there is a pair
of triangular instruments, somewhat resem-
bhng the beak of a bird, inserted on each side
of the mouth, under the parts which are gene-
rally regarded a& tlie antennie. Next, a paii-
of long slmrp piercers Ucaipell/t, Kiuby),
which emerge fVom the liead below the preced-
ing instnnnents; whilst a pair of feelers
{pafpi), consisting of four joints, is attached
to the^iA near their base. lu fine, there is a
long, slender tongue, like a bristle, in the
middle of these several pieces.
Mor.tfet says, " the lesser, leaner, and
younger the llcas are, the sharper they bite, —
the fut ones being more inclined to tickle and
play. They molest men that are sleeping,'* he
a<lds, " and trouble wounded and sick persons,
fix>ra whom they escape by skipping ; for as
soon as they find they are an-aigned to die,
and feel the finger coming, on a sudden they
are gone, and leap here and there, and s(» es-
cape the danger ; but so soon as day breaks
tliey forsake the bed. They then creep into
the rough blankets, or hide themselves in
rushes and dust, lying in ambush for pigeons,
hens, and otlier birds ; also for men and dogs,
moles and mice, and vex such as pass by.
Our himters report that foxes are of full
them, and they tell a pretty story how they
get quit of them. •* The fox," say they, " ga-
thers some handfuls of wool firom thorns and
briers, and wrapping it up, holds it fast in his
naoutli, then he goes by degrees into a cold
river, and dips himself down by httle and
httle; when he finds that all the fleas are
crept so high as his head for fear of drowning,
and ultimately for shelter crept into the wool,
he barks and spits out the wool, full of fleas,
and thus vei;y froliquely being delivered from
their moLestations, ne swims to land." J
' This is a little more doubtfiU even than the
stoiy told of Cliristina, queen of Sweden,
who is reported to have fired at the fleas that
troubled her witli a piece of artillery, still ex-
hibited in the Boyal ^Vrsenal at Stockholm. §
Nor are fleas confined to the old continent, for
• J. R. t " Th«ttro of rnsocta,- p. 1102.
J *• J ho^tro of Insects" p. 1102.
I Liiu'juixa, •' Luchcsia Lapau." U. 32, note.
I Lewis and Clarke found them exceedingly ha-
I rassing on the banks of the Missouri, where
it is said the native Indians are sometimes
compelled to shift their quarters, to escape
their annoyance. They are not acquainted, it
would therefore seem, with the device of the
shepherds in Hungar}', who grease their clothes
with hog's-Iard to deter the fleas ;* nor with
the old English preventive :
'*Whil« wormwood hath s«od, get ahMidAiI or twaine.
To 8aT« acndnst March, to iuiJcm fleas refraiu.
Vhere chamber is swopt. aud wormwooU is atrown,
Ne'or flva for his lifo axtro abidu to be kuowu."!
LinnR?U8 was in error in stating that the do-
meslic cat (/V/i« maNicMlatut, Teemxikck) is
not infested with fleas ; for on kittens in par-
ticular they abound as numerouslj as upon
dogs.}
Hr.a Majesty's Buo-DcsTnoYEr.,
The vending of bug-ix)ison in the London
streets is seldom followed as a regular source
of living. We have met with persons who
remember to have »een men selling penny
packets of vennin poison, but to find out the
vendors themselves was next to an impos-
sibility. The men seem merely to take to
the business as a living when all otlier sources
have failed. All, however, agree in acknow-
ledging that there is such a strcct trade, but
that the living it aflbrds is so precarious that
few men stop at it longer than two or three
weeks.
l*erhaps the most eminent firm of tlie bug-
destroyers in London is that of Messrs. Tiflin
and Son ; but they have pursued tlicir calling
in the streets, and rejoice in the title of " I3ug-
Desti'oyers to Her Majesty and tlie lioyal
Family,"
Mr. TiflBn, the senior partner in this house,
most kindly obliged mo with the following
statement. It may be as well to say that Mr.
Tiffin appears to have paid much attention to
the subject of bugs, and has studied with much
earnestness the natural history of this vermin.
*' Via can trace oin: business back," he said,
" as far as 1693, when one of our ancestors
first turned his attention to the destruction of
bugs. He was a latly's stay-maker — men
used to make them in those days, though, as
far as that is concerned, it was a man that
made my mother's dresses. This ancestor
fonnd some hugs in his house — a young
colony of tbem, that had introdneed them-
selves without his permbsion, and he didn't
like their company, so he trieid to turn them
out of doors again, I have heard it snid, in
various ways. It is in history, and it has
been handed down in my own family a« well,
that bugs were first introduced into England
after the fire of Loudon, in the timber Uiai
* *' Travels."
f Tusacr, ** PoiuU of Goods Huabandr;.*
: J. u.
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
87
WAS brought fi)r rebuilding the city, tliirty
jcars sfler the fire, and it was about that time
that my ancestor firet discovered the colony
of bugs in his house, I oan't say whether he
gtadi^ the snbjeet of bug-destroying, or whe-
ther he found out his stuff by accident, but he
ee^nly did invent a oompound which com-
pletely destroyed the bugs, and, having been
10 successful in his own house, he named it
to some of his customers who were similarly
plagued, and that was the commencement of
the present connexion, which has continued
up to this time,
"' At the time of the illumination for the
Peace, I thought I must have something over
my shop, that would be both suitable for the
event and to nfy business ; so I had a trans-
parency done, and stretched on a big frame,
and lit up by gas, on which was written —
MATTB2
DESTROYERS OF PEACE
BE DESTROYED BT US.
TIFFIN k, SON,
BUG-DESTROYERS TO HER MAJESTY.
^ Our business was formerly carried on in
the Strand, where both my father and myself
were bom ; in fact, I may say I was born to
the bug business*
" I remember my father as well as possible ;
indeed, I worked with him for ten or eleven
years. He used, when I was a boy, to go out
to his work killing bugs at his customers*
houses with a sword by Jus side and a cocked-
hat and bag- wig on his head — in fact, dressed
up like a regular dandy. I remember my
grandmother, too, when she was in the busi-
ness, going to the different houses, and seat-
ing herself in a chair, and telling the men
what they were to do, to clean the furniture
and wash the woodwork.
** I have customers in our books for whom
our house has worked these 100 years ; that is,
my fiither «nd self have worked for them and
their fathers. We do the work by contract,
examining the house every year. It's a pre-
caution to keep the place comfortable. You
see, servants are apt to bring bugs in their
boxes ; and, though there may be only two or
three buj^ x>erhiip9 hidden in the woodwork
and the dothet, yet they soon breed if left
alone*
** We gmeraUy go hi the spring, before the
bogs lay their eggs } or, if that time passes,
it ought to be done before June, before their
•ggB are hatched, though it's never too late to
get rid of » nuisance.
** I mostly find the bugs in the bedsteads.
But, if they are left unmolested, they get
nmaeioua and elimb to the tops of the^ooms,
and about the ooraoB oi the ceilings. They
eolonixe anywliera they can, though they're
▼ery higb-imiftded and prefer lofty places.
Where ircm bedsteads are used the bugs are
iBora im thm roomtf «Bd that's why sueh things
are bad. They don't keep a bug away from
the person sleeping. Bugs '11 come, if they're
thirty yards off,
" I knew a case of a bug who used to come
evexy night about thirty or forty feet — it was
an immense large room — from a comer of
the room to visit an old lady. There was only
one bug, and he'd been there for a long time.
I was sent for to find bim out. It took me a
long timo to catch him. In that instance I
had to examine every part of the room, and
when I got him I gave him an extra nip to
serve him out. The reason why I was so
bothered was, the bug had hidden itself near
the ^"indow, the last place I should have
thought of looking for him, for a bug never
by choice faces the light; but when I came
to inquire about it, I found that this old lady
never rose till three o'clock in the day, and
the window-curtains were always drawn, so
that there was no light like.
*' Lord I yes, I am often sent for to catch
a single bug. I've had to go many, many
miles — even 100 or 200 — into the conntr}*,
and perhaps catch only half-a-dozen bugs
after all; but then that's all that are there,
so it answers our employer's purpose as well
as if they were swarming.
" I work for the upper classes only ; that
is, for carriage company and such-like ap-
proaching it, you know. I have noblemen's
names, the first in England, on my books.
** ;My work is more- method ; and I may
call it a scientific treating of the bugs rather
than wholesale murder. We don't care about
the thousands, it's the last bug we look for,
whilst your carpenters and upholsterers leave
as many behind them, perhaps, as they man-
age to catch.
" The bite of the bug is very curious. They
bite all persons the same(?) but the differ-
ence of effect lays in the constitution of the
parties. I've never noticed Uiat a different
kind of skin makes any difference in being
bitten. Whether the skin is moist or dry,
it don't matter. Wherever bugs are, the per-
son sleeping in the bed is sure to be fed on,
whether they are marked or not; and as a
proof, when nobody has slept in the bed for
8orae time, the bugs become quite fiat; and,
on the contrary, when the bed is always occu-
pied, they are round as a * lady-bird.'
^* The flat bug is more ravenous, though
even he wiU allow you time to go to sleep before
he begins with you ; or at least until he thinks
you ought to be asleep. When they find all
quiet, not even a light in the room yn\\ prevent
their biting ; but they are seldom or ever found
under the bed-clothes. They Uke a clear
ground to get off, and generally bite round Uie
edges of the nightcap or the nightdress. When
they are found in the bed, it's because the
parties have been tossing about, and have curled
the sheets round the bugs.
^ The finest and the fattest bugs I ever saw
were those I found in a black man's bed^ He
98
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
WAS the favourite servant of an Indian general.
He didn't want his bed done by me ; he didn't
want it touched. His bed was full of 'em,
no beehive was ever fuller. The walls and all
were the same, there wasn't a patch that wasn't
crammed with them. He must have taken
them all over the house wherever he went
•* I've known persons to be laid up for
months through bug-bites. There was a very
handsome fair young lady I knew once, and
she was much bitten about the arms, and neck,
and face, so that her eyes were so swelled up
she couldn't sec. The spots rose up like blis-
ters, the same as if stung with a nettle, only
on a very large scale. The bites were very
much inflamed, and after a time they had the
appearance of boiU.
^^Somo people fancy, and it is historically
recorded, that tlie bug smells because it has
no vent ; but this is fabulous, for they have a
veut It is not the human blood neither that
makes them smell, because a young bug who
has never touched a drop ifv-ill smell. They
breathe, I believe, through tlieir sides ; but I
can't answer for that, though it's not through
the head. They haven't g< )t a mouth, but they
insert into the skin tlie point of a tube, which
is quite as fine as a hair, through which they
draw up the blood. I have many a time put a
bug on the back of my hand, to see how they
bite ; though I never felt the bite but once, and
then I suppose the bug had pitched upon a
very tender part, for "it was a sharp prick,
something like that of a leech -bite.
** I once had a case of lice-killing, for my
process will answer as well for them as for
bugs, though it's a thing I should never follow
by choice. Lice seem to harbour pretty much
the same as bugs do. I found them in the fur-
niture. It was a nurse that brought them into
the house, though she was as nice and clean a
looking woman as ever I saw. I should almost
imagine the lice must have been in her, for
they say there is a disease of that kind ; ond if
the tics breed in sheep, why should not lice
breed in ub ? for we're but live matter, too. I
didn't like myself at all for two or three days
after that lioe-ldlling job, I can assiure you ; it's
the only case of the lund I ever had, and I can
promise you it shall be the last.
" I was once at work on the Princess Char-
lotte's own bedstead. I was in the room, and
she asked me if I had found anything, and
I told her no ; but just at that minute I did
happen to catch one, and upon that she sprang
up on the bed, and put her hand on my
shoulder, to look at it She had been tor-
mented by the creature, because I was. ordered
to come directly, and that was the only one I
found. When the Princess saw it, she said,
< Oh, the nasty thing t That's what tormented
me last night; don*t let him escape.' I think
he looked all the better for having tasted royal
blood.
" I also profess to kill beetles, though you
can never destroy them so effectually as you
can bugs ; for, you see, beetles run from one
house to another, and you can never perfectly
get rid of them ; you can only keep them
under. Beetles will scrape their way and
make their road round a fireplace, but how
they manage to go from one house to another
I can't say, but they do,
** I never had patience enough to try and
kill fleas by my process ; it would be too much
of a chivey to please me.
•* I never heard of any but one man who
seriously went to work selling bug- poison in the
streets. I was told by some persons that he
was selling a first-rate thing, and I spent several
days to find him out. But, after all, his secret
proved to be nothing at all. It was train-oil,
linseed and hempseed, crushed up all together,
and the bugs were to eat it till they burst
" After all, secrets for bug-poisons ain't
wortli much, for all depends upon the applica-
tion of them. For instance, it is often the
case that I am sent for to find out one bug in
a room large enough for a school. I've dis-
covered it when the creature had been three or
four months there, as I could tell by his having
changed his jacket so often — for bugs shed
their skins, you know. No, there was no rea-
son that he should have bred ; it might have
been a single gentleman or an old maid.
** A married couple of bugs will lay from
forty to fifty eggs at one laying. The eggs are
oval, and are each as lai*ge as the thirty- second
part of an inch ; and when together are in the
shape of a caraway comfit, and of a bluish-
white colour. They'll lay this quantity of eggs
three times in a season. The young ones are
hatched direct f^om the egg, and, hke young
partridges, will often carry the broken eggs
about with them, ding^g to their back. They
get their fore-quarters out, and then they run
about before the other legs are completely
cleared.
"As soon as the bugs are bom they are
of a cream colour, and will take to blood di-
rectly; indeed, if they don't get it in two or
three days they die ; but after one feed they
will live a considerable time without a second
meal. I have known old bugs to be frozen
over in a horse-pond — when the furniture has
been thrown in the water — and there they
have remained for a good three weeks ; still,
after they have got a little bit warm in the
sun's rays they have returned to life again.
** I have myself kept bugs for five years and
a half without food, and a housekeeper at Lord
H 's informed me that an old bedstead that
I was then moving from a store-room was
taken down forty-five years ago, and had not
been used since, but the bugs in it were still
numerous, though as thin as living skeletons.
They couldn't have lived upon the sap of the
wood, it being worm-eaten and dry as a bone.
** A bug will live for a number of years, and
we find Uiat when bugs are put away in old
furniture without food, they dont increase in
number ; so that, according to my belief, the
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
39
bn^ I just mentioned most have existed forty-
tiTe years : besides, they were large ones, and
very dark-coloured, which is another proof of
age.
" It is a dangerous time for bngs when they
are shedding their skins, which they do about
I four times in the course of a year; then they
I throw off their hard shell and have a soft coat,
I 80 that the least touch will kiU them ; whereas,
at other times they will take a strong pressure.
I have plenty of bug-skins, which I keep by
me as curiosities, of all sizes and colours, and
sometimes I have found the young bugs col-
I lected inside the old ones' skins for warmth, as
j if they had put on their father's great-coat
I There are white bugs — albinoes you may call
I 'em — freaks of nature like."
I
Biacx-Bbetles.
' CocEROAOHES are even more voracious than
^ crickets. A small species {Blaita Lapponica^
Lo;^.), occasionally met with about London, is
' said to swarm numerously in the huts of the
I Laplanders, and will sometimes, iu conjunc-
tion with a carrion-beetle (Silpha Lapponica^
Ijx5.), devour, we are told, in a single day,
their whole store of dried fish.
In London, and many other parts of the
' couDtry, coclooaches, originally introduced
from abroad, have multiplied so prodigiously
I as to be a great nuisance. They are often so
numerous in kitchens and lower rooms in
the metropolis as literally to cover the floor,
and render it impossible for them to move,
j except over each other's bodies. This, in-
deed, onlj happens after dark, for they are
I strictly night insects, and the instant a candle
1 is intruded upon the assembly they rush
towards their hiding-places, so that in a few
seconds not one of the countless multitude is
to be seen.
In oonsequenca of their numbers, inde-
pendently of their carnivorous propensities,
they are driven to eat anything that comes
in their way; and, besides devouring eveiy
species of kitchen-stuff, they gnaw clothes,
leather, and books. They likewise pollute
everything they crawl over, with an unpleasant
nauseous smell.
These ** black-beetles," however, as they are
eommonly called, are harmless when compared
viih the foreign species, the giant cockroach
{Blalia giganUa), which is not content with
devouring the stores of the larder, but will
attack human bodies, and even gnaw the ex-
tremities of the dead and dyings — (Drury's
lUuMtraUoM of Nat, Hut, ilL Pre/.)
Codroaches, at least the kind that is most
■bmidant in Britain, hate the light, and never
come forth from their hiding-places till the
Hg^ts are removed or extinguished (the Blatta
Qtrmamea^ however, which abounds in some
houses, is bolder, making its appearance in
the day, and rmming up the walls and over
the tables, to the great annoyance of the in-
habitants). In the London houses, especially
on the ground-floor, they are most abundant,
and consume everything they can find — flour,
bread, meat, clothes, and even shoes. As soon
as light, natural or artificial, appears, they all
scamper off as fast as they can, and vilnish in
an instant.
These pests are not indigenous to this
country, and perhaps nowhere in Europe, but
are one of the evils which commerce has im-
ported. In Captain Cook's last voyage, the
ships, while at Husheine, were infested with
incredible numbers of these creatures, which
it was found irapossible by any means to
destroy. Every kind of food, when exposed
only for a few minutes, was covered with
them, and pierced so full of holes, that it
resembled a honeycomb. They were so fond
of ink that they ate out the writing on labels.
Captain Cook's cockroaches were of two kinds —
the Blatta Orientalis and Oermanica, — {Encyc.
Briian.)
The following fact we give firom Mr. Douglas's
World of Insect* • —
" Everybody has heard of a haunted house ;
nearly every house in and about London u
haunted. Let the doubters, if they have the
courage, go stealthily down to the kitchen at
midnight, armed with a light and whatever
other weapon they like, and they will see that
beings of which Tam o'Shanter never dreamed,
whose presence at daylight was only a myth,
have here * a local habitation and a name.*
Scared from their nocturnal revels, the crea-
tures run and scamper in all directions, until,
in a short time, the stage is clear, and, as in
some legend of diablerie^ nothing remains but
a most peculiar odour.
" These were no spirits, had nothing even of
the fairy about them, but were veritable cock-
roaches, or ' black-beetles' — as they are more
commonly but erroneously termed — for they
are not beetles at all. They have prodigious
powers of increase, and are a corresponding
nuisance. Kill as many as you will, except,
perhaps, by poison, and you cannot extirpate
them — ^the cry is, * Still they come.*
** One of the best ways to be rid of them is to
keep a hedgehog, to which creature they are
a favourite food, and his nocturnal habits make
him awake to theirs. I have known cats eat
cockroaches, but they do not thrive upon
them."
**One article of their food would hardly
have been suspected," says Mr. Newman, in
a note communicated to the Entomological
Society, at the meeting in February, 18ft6.
<* < There is nothing new under the sun ;' so
says the proverb. I believed, until a few
days back, that I possessed the knowledge of
a fact in the dietary economy of the cockroach
of which entomologists were not cognisant,
but I find myself forestalled ; the fact is * as
old as the hills.* It is, that the cockroach
seeks with diligence and devours with great
gusto the common bed-bug.
40
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
" I will not mention names, bat I am so con-
fident of the Teracity of the narrator, that I
-wUlingly take the entire responsibility of the
foUowiDg narrative : —
^ * Poverty makes one acquainted with strange
bedfellows ,** and my informant bears willing
testimony to the truth of the adage. He had
not been prosperous, and liad sought shelter
in a London boarding-house ; every night he
saw cockroaches ascending his bed-cuitains ;
every morning ho complained to his very
respectable landlady, and invaiiably received
the comforting assurance that there was not a
* black-beetle m the house.' Still he pursued
liis nocturnal investigations, and he not only
saw cockroaches running along the tester of
Uie bed, but, to his great astonishment, he
positively observed one of them seize a bug,
and he therefore concluded, and not without
some show of reason, that the cockroach
ascended the curtains witli this especial object,
and that the more odoriferous insect is a
favourite food of the major one.
" The following extract from Mr. Webster's
« Narrative of Foster's Voyage,' corroborates
this recent observation, and illustrates the
proverb wliich I have taken as my text:
* Cockroaches, those nuisances of ships, are
plentiful at St Helena, and yet, bad as they
are, they are more endurable than bugs.
Trevious to our arrival here in the Chanticleer
we had suffered great inconvenience from the
latter ; but the cockroaches no sooner made
their appearance than the bugs entirely dis-
appeared. The fact is, the cockroach preys
ui)on them, and leaves no sign or vestige
of where they have been. So far, the latter
is a most valuable insect' "
So great is the annoyance and discomfort
arising fh>m tlicse insects in Cockney house-
holds, that the author of a paper in the Daily
News discusses the best means of effecting
their extirpation. The writer of the article
referred to avows his conviction, that the
ingeniouB individual who shall devise the
means of effectually ridding our houses of
these insect pests iiiU deserve to be ranked
amongst the benefactors of mankind. The
writer details the various expedients resorted
to — hedgehogs, cucumber-peel, red wafers,
phosphonc paste, glazed basins or pio-dishcs
filled with beer, or a syrup of beer and sugar,
with bits of wood set up from tiie floor to the
edge, for the creatures to run up by, and then
be precipitated into the fatal lake, but believes
that *'none of these methods are fundamental
enough for the evil," which, so far as he is ^et
aware, can only be effectualJly cured by heatmg
our houses by steam t
Beetle Destboyeab.
A FiRV, which has been established in London
seven years, and which manufactures ex-
clusively poison known to the trade as tlie
** I'hosplior Paste for the destruction of black-
beeties, cockroaches, rats, mice/' &€,, were
kind enough to give mo the following infor-
mation:—
" AVe have now sold this vermin poison for
seven years, but we have never had an applica-
tion for our composition from any street-seller.
We have seen, a year or two since, a man
about London who used to sell beetle-wafers ;
but as we knew that kind of article to bo
entirely useless, we were not surprised to fmd
that he did not succeed in making a hving.
We have not heoi'd of him fur some time, anid
have no doubt he is dead, or has taken up
some other line of emplo}'ment
"It is a strange fact, perhaps; but we do
not know anything, or scarceiy anything, as to
the kind of people and tradesmen who pur-
chase our poison — to speak the tmth, we do
not like to make too many inquiries of our
customers. Sometimes, when tiiey have used
more than their customary quantity, we have
asked, casually, how it was and to what kind of
business-people they disposed of it, and wo have
always been met with an evasive sort of answer.
You see tradesmen don't like to divulge too
mucli ; for it must be a poor kind of pro£esaion
or calling that there ore no secrets in ; and,
again, they fancy we want to know what de-
scription of trades use the most of our com-
position, so that we might supply them direct
from ourselves.
" From tiiis oanso we Ixavo made it a rule
not to inquire curiously into the mutters of our
customers. We are quite content to dispose
of the quantity wo do, for we employ aix
travellers to call on chemists and oilmen fur
tJie town trade, and four for the country.
*' The otlier day an elderly lady from High-
street, C&mden Town, called upon us : she
stated that she was overrun with black-beeties,
and wished to buy some of our paste from our-
selves, for she said she always found things
better if you purchased them of the maker, as
yon were sure to get them stronger, and by
that means avoid^ the adulteration of the
shopkeepers. But as we have said we would
not supply a single box to anyone, not wiahing
to give our agents any cause for complaint, we
were obliged to refuse to sell to the old lady.
•* We don't care to say how many boxes we
sell in tlio year ; but we can tell you, sir, that
we sell more for boeUe poisoning in the
summer than in the winter, as a matter of
course. ViThen we find that a particular distnct
uses almost an equal quantity all Uie year
round, we make sure that that is a rat district ;
for where there is not the heat of summer to
breed beeties, it must follow that the people
wish to get rid of rats.
" Brixton, Hackney, Ball's Pond, and Lower
Road, Islington, are the places that use most
of our paste, those districts lying low, and
being consequentiy damp. Camden Town,
though it is in a high situation, is vcr}* much
infested with beeties; it is a clayey soil, you
undcx-staud, which retains moisture, und will
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOH.
41
Bot tllo w it to ® ter lihTOtigh &e gravel. Tkis
is wby in flone "very low districts, where the
b<mses are bniH <m -gravel, we sell scarce! j any
of otir xmste.
" As the fanners say, & good fttnt year is a
food fly ycirr; so we say, a good dnll, wet
smniner, is a "good beetle smmner ; and this
has been a Tery fertile year, and we only hope
it win be as good next year.
•• We don't believe in rat-destroyers ; they
profess to Idll with weasels and a lot of things,
and sometimes even say they can charm them
away. Captains of vessels, when they anive
in the docks, will employ these people ; and,
as we say, they genendly use onr composition,
bat as long as their vessels are cleared of the
vermin, they dont care to know how it is done.
A man who drives about in a cart, and docs a
great business in this way, we have reason to
believe nses % great qnantUy of our Phosphor
Paste. He comes from somewhere down the
East-end or \NTiitechapel way.
•Our prices are too high for the street-
sellers. Your street-seller can only afford to
sell an article made by a person in bnt a very
httle better position than himself. Even onr
small boxes cost At the trade priee two shillings
a dozen, and when sold "will only produce three
shillings ; so you can imagine the profit is not
enough for the itinerant vendor.
" Bakers don't «se much of our paste, far
they seem to think it no use to destroy the
vermin — beetles and bakers* ahops generally
go togethar."
Cbicqcts.
The house-cridket may perhaps be deemed
a s^H more annoiying insect than the common
cockroach, adding an incessant noise to its
ravages. Though it may not be unpleasant
to hear for a short time '* the cricket
chimip in the hearth,^ so constant a din
every evening must greatly intaimpt o<nnfort
aad conversation.
These garrulous animals, which live in a
land of artificial torrid zone, ara very thirsty
souls, and are frequently found drowned in
pans of water, milk, broth, and the like.
Whatever is moist, even stockings or linen
hung out to dry, is to them a houtu boucke ;
Ihey win eat the skimmings of pots, yeast,
crambs of bread, and even salt, or anything
within their reafih. Sometimes thej are so
abundant in houses as to become absolute
pestSi flying into the candles and even into
people's faces. — (Kirby and Spence's £hI. u
200,7.)
The house-cricket {Acheia domettica) is well
known for its habit of picking out the mortar
of ovens and fire-places, where it not only
enjoys warmth, but can procure abundance of
food. It is usually supposed that it feeds on
bread. M. Latreille says it only eats insects,
and it certainly thrives well in houses infested
by the cockroach ; but we have also known it
eat and destroy lamb's-wool stockings, and
other woollen stuffs, hung near a fire to dry.
Although the food of crickets consists chiefly
of vegetable substances, they exliibit a pro-
pensity to carnivorous habits. The house-
cricket thrives best in the vicinity of a baker's
oven, where there are plenty of breswl crumbs.
Mouffet marvels at its extreme lankness,
inasmuch as there is not " found in the belly
any superfluity at all, although it feed on the
moisture of flesh and fat of broth, to which,
eitlier poured out or reserved, it runs in the
night ; yea, although it feed on bread, yet is
the belly always lank and void of superfluity."
— ( Theatre of Insects, p. 90.)
White of Selbome, again, says, "as one
would suppose, from the burning atmosphere
which they inhabit, they are a thirsty race,
and show a great propensity for liquids, being
frequently found dead in pans of water, milk,
broth, or tbo like. Whatever is moist they
arc fond of, and therefore they often gnaw
holes in wet woollen stockings and aprons
that are hung to the fire. These crickets are
not only VC17 thu-sty, but very voracious ; for
they will eat the scummings of pots, yeast,
bread, and kitchen offal, or sweepings of
almost eveiy description." — (A'o/. Hist, of
Seliorne.)
The cricket is eridcntly not fond of hard
labour, but prefers those places where the
mortar is already loosened, or at least is new,
soft, and easily scooped out ; and in this way
it will dig covert channels from room to room.
In summer, crickets often make excursions
from the house to the neighbouring fields,
and dwell in the crevices of rubbish, or the
cracks made in the ground by dry weather,
where tliey chirp as merrily as in the snuggest
chimney-comer. Whether they ever dig re-
treats in such circumstances we have not
ascertained, though it is not improbable they
ms^' do so for the purpose of making nests.
"Those,- says Mr. Gough of Manchester,
" who have attended to the manners of the
hearth -cricket, know that it passes the hottest
part of the summer in sunny situations, con-
cealed in the crevices of widls and hei^ of
rubbish. It quits its summer abode aboui
the end of August, and fixes its residence by
the fireside of kitchens or cottages, where it
multiplies its species, and is as meny at
Christmas as other insects in the dog-days.
ThTis do the comforts of a warm hearth afford
the cricket a safe refuge, not from death, but
firom temporaxy torpiditj^, though it con sup-
port this for a long time, when deprived by
accident of artificial warmth.
" I came to a knowledge of this fact," con-
tinues Mr. Gough, " by planting a colony of
these insects in a kitchen, where a constant
fire was kept through the summer, but which
is discontinued from November till June, with
the exception of a day once in six or eight
weeks. The crickets were brought from a
distance, and let go in this room, in the be-
42
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
ginning of September, 1806; here they in-
creased considerably in the course of two
months, but were not heard or seen after the
fire was removed. Their disappearance led
me to conclude that the cold had killed them ;
but in this I was mistaken ; for a brisk fire
being kept up for a whole day in the winter,
the warmth of it invited my colony from their
hiding*place, but not before the evening ; after
which they continued to skip about and chirp
the greater part of the following day, when
they again disappeared — being compelled, by
the returning cold, to take refuge in their
former retreats. They left the chimney-
comer on the 25th of May, 1807, after a fit of
veiy hot weather, and revisited their winter
residence on the 3 1st of August. Here they
spent the summer merely, and at present
(Januar}', 1808) lie torpid in the crevices of
the chimney, with the exception of those days
on which they are recalled to a temporary
existence by the comforts of the fire." — (Reeve,
Euay on the Torpidity qfAnimali, p. 84.)
M. Bery St. Vincent tells us that the
Spaniards are so fond of crickets that they
keep them in cages like singing-birds. — (Did.
CUusique d*SUt, Nat, Ari,^ GrUlon. Bennie's
Intect ArehiUeture, 4th edit. p. 242.)
Associated as is the chirping song of the
cricket family of insects with the snug chimney-
corner, or the sunshine of summer, it affords
a pleasure which certainly does not arise from
the intrinsic quality of its music. ^* Sounds,"
says White, *' do not always give us pleasure
according to their sweetness and melody ; nor
do harsh sounds always displease. Thus,
the shrilling of the field-cricket {Acheta cam-
pettriM), though sharp and stridulous, yet
marvellously delights some hearers, filling
their minds with a train of summer ideas of
everything that is rural,verdurous, and joyous."
--{Nat. Hist. o/Selbome, ii. 73.)
*' Sounds InharmoniouB in ihemielvea. and banh,
Tet heard in soenea where peace for ever reignii^
And only there, pleaae highly for their nke."
CowFKB, Tdak^ Book I.
This circumstance, no doubt, causes the
Spaniards to keep them in cages, as we do
Binging-birds. White tells us that, if sup.
pHed with^ moistened leaves, they will sing as
merrily and loud in a paper cage as in the
fields ; but he did not succeed in planting a
colony of them in the terrace of his garden,
though he bored holes for them in the turf to
save them the labour of digging.
The hearth-cricket, again, though we hear
it oocasionally in the hedge-banks in simuner,
prefers the warmth of an oven or a good fire,
and thence, residing as it were always in the
torrid zone, is ever alert and merry — a good
Christmas fire being to it what the heat of the
dog-days is to others.
Though crickets are frequently heard by
day, yet their natural time of motion is only
in tiie night. As soon as darkness prevails
the chirping increases, whilst the hearth-
crickets come running forth, and are often to
be seen in great numbers, from the size of a
flea to that of their full stature.
I Like the field-cricket, the hearth- crickets
' are sometimes kept for their music ; and the
learned Scaliger took so great a fancy to tlieir
I song, that he was accustomed to keep them
in a box in his study. It is reported that in
some parts of Africa they are kept and fed in
a kind of iron oven, and sold to the natives,
who like their chirp, and think it is a good
soporific— (Mouffet, Theat. Insect, 136.)
Milton, too, chose for his contemplative
pleasures a spot where crickets resorted :—
" Where glowing embcm through the room
Teach bght to counterfeit a gloom.
Far from all retort of mirth,
8ee the cricket on the hearth."— /{ Peiucroso.
Bennie, in his Insect Jfiscellaniei, says,
'* We have been as tmsuccessf\il in transplant-
ing the hearth-cricket as White was wiUi the
field-crickets. In two different houses we
have repeatedly introduced crickets, but could
not prevail on them to stay. One of our
. trials, indeed, was made in summer, with
' insects brought from a garden-wall, and it is
probable they thought the kitchen fire-side
too hot at that season."— (p. 82.)
The so-called chirp of the cricket is a vulgar
error. The instrument (for so it may be
styled) upon which the male cricket plays
(the femide is mute) consists of strong ner.
vures or rough strings in the wing-cases, by
the friction of which against each other a
sound is produced and communicated to the
membranes stretched between them, in the
same manner as the vibrations caused by the
friction of the finger upon the tambourine are
difilised over its surfSnce. It is erroneously
stated in a popular work, that " the organ is
a membrane, which in contracting, by means
of a muscle and tendon placed under the
wings of the insect, folds down somewhat like
a fan ; ** and this, being ** always dry, yields by
its motion a sharp piercing sound." — (Bing,
Anim, Biog, iv. hth edit. Bennie's Insed
Miscellanies^ p. 62.)
PUNCH'S SHOWMEN.
[From a PhotographJ]
LOMDOK LABOUR AND THE LOKDON POOR.
At\
OUR STREET FOLK.
I^STBEET EXHIBITOES.
PCKCH.
The perf'^nncr of Punch thct I satr iras a
short, dark, pleasant-looking laan, dressed iu
a veiy greasy and very shiny green sliooting-
.iacket. This waa iaataned togedier by one
buUmi iu front, all the other button-holes
having been boxat through. Protruding from
Lis bo8oni, a comer of the pandean pipes was
just A-icuble, and as he told me the stor>' of his
fctlventures, he kept playing with the band of
his very limp and very rusty old beaver hat
lie had formeriy been a gentleman's servant,
and was cspeeiiUly civil in his manners. He
came to nie with to hair tidily brushed for
the oeeasion, but apologised for his appear-
ance on entering the room. He was rery
ccumDunieativey and took great delight in talk-
ing hk» Punch, with his call in his moutli,
while some yoong children were in the room,
and who, hearing the well-known sound of
Punch's voice, looked all about for the figure.
Not seraig the show, the}' fancied the man
had the figure in his pocket, luid that the
soimds came from it The change from
Punch's voice to the man's natural tone was
managed without ao eflbrt, and inatanta-
nwuslj. It had a very peculiar efiect.
** I am the proprietor of a Punch's show,"
he said. ** I goes about with it myself, and
pertarms inside the frame behind the green
baize. I have a pardner what plays the
music — the pipes and drum; him as you
seed with me. I have been ftve-and-twenty
year now at the buainess. I wish Pd never
K-en it, though itVs heen a money-making busi-
ness-^indeed, the best of all the street hex-
hibitBons I may say. I am fifty years old. I
took to it for money gains — that was what I
done it for. I formerly lived in service—
was a fbotraan in a gentieman's family. TYhen
I first took to it, I could make two and three
pounds a-day— I could so. You see, the way
in whirh I took first to the business was thin
here— there was a party used to come and
' cheer' for ns at my macfter's house, and her
son having a liexhibition of his own, and being
in want of a pardner, axed me if so be Pd go
out, which was a thing that I degraded at the
time. He gave me informatioD as to what the
money^akuig was, and it aeemed to me that
frood,'that it voold pay me better nor service.
X had twenty poim« a-yaar in my place, and
my boaand and lodging, sad two amtaof clothes,
l>ut the young man told me as how I could
make one pound ai^ay at the Puneh^and-
Jady basiaesB, after a little practice. I took
a d^ of penoasioa, though, be£6re Pd join
him — it was beneath my dignity to fall from I
a footman to a showman. But, you ciee, the
French gennehnan as I Ivi^ed with (he were a
merchant in the dty, and had fourteen clerks
working for him) went back to his own
country to reside, and left me with a written
kerrackter ; but that was ao use to me : though
I'd fine rocommeudations at the back of it,
no one would look at it ; so I was five months
out of employment, knocking about — Kviog
first on my wages and then on my clothes, till
all was gone but the Hew rags on ray back. So
I began to think that the Punch-Mid-Judy
business was better than starving aifter alL
Yes, I should think anything was better than
that, though it's a business that, alter youVe
onee took to, ynu nerrer can get out of —
people fancies you know too much, and wont
have nothing to say to you. If I got a situa-
tion at a tradesman's, why the boys would be
sure to recognise me behind the counter, and
begin a shouting into the shop (theynurtf
shout, you know): * Oh, there's Punch and
Judy-^there's Punch a-sarving out the cus-
tomers!' Ah, it's a great annoyaace being a
public kerrackter, I can asaore you, sir; go
where you will, if s * Punchy, Punchy ! ' As for
the boys, they'll never leave me alone till I
die, I know; and I suppose in my old age I
shall have to take to the paiish broom. All
our forefathers died in the workhouse. I don't
know a Puneli's showman that hasn't. One
of ay pardners was buried by the workhouse ;
and e%'en old Pike, the most noted showman
as ever was, died in the workhouse — Pike
and Porsini. Porsini was the first original
street Pundi, and Pike was his apprentice ;
their names is handed dowm to posterity
among the noblemen and footmen of the
land. They both died in the workhouse, and,
in course, I shall do the same. Something
else mi^ turn up, to be sure. We can't say
what this luck of the world is. I'm obliged to
strive verjr hard — very hard indeed, sir, now,
to get a hving ; and then not to get it after all
•—at times, compelled to go short, often.
** Punch, you know, sir, ia a dramatic per-
formance in two hacts. It's a play, you may
say. I don't think it can be cidled a tragedy
hexactly; a drama is what we names it.
There is tragic parts, and eomie and senti-
mental i>arta, toa Some families where I
performs will have it most sentimental — in
the original style ; them families is generally
sentimental theirselves. Others is all for the
eomie, and then I has to kick up all the ga^fs
I can. To the sentunental fblk I am obl^ed
toi»erform weny steadv and werry slow, and
leave out all oomic wotds and business. They
wont have no ghost, no ooflfin, and no detii;
and that's what I call qpiling the perfbrmsnea
44
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
entirely. It's the inarch of hintellect wot's a
doing all this— it is, sir. But I was a going
to tell you about my first jining the business.
Well, you see, after a good deal of persuading,
atfl being drew to it, I may say, I consented
to go out with the young man as I were a-
speaking about. He was to give me twelve
shillings a-week and my keep, for two years
certain, till I oould get my own show things
together, and for that I was to cany the show,
and go round and collect. Collecting, you
know, sounds better than begging ; the pro-
nounciation's better like. Sometimes the peo-
ple says, when they sees us a coming round,
' Oh, here they comes a-begging '.-.but it
can't be begging, you know, when you're a
hexerting yourselves. I couldn't play the drum
and pipes, so the young man used to do that
himself, to call the people together before he
got into the show. I used to stand outside,
and patter to the figures. The first time that
ever I went out with Punch was in the be-
ginning of August, 1825. I did all I could to
avoid being seen. My dignity was hurt at
being hobJigated to take to the streets for a
living. At fust I fought shy, and used to feel
queer somehow, you don't know how like,
whenever the people used to look at me. I
remember werry well the first street as eyer
I performed in. It was off Gray's Inn, one of
them quiet, genteel streets, and when the mob
began to gather round I felt all-overish, and
I turned my head to the frame instead of the
people. We hadn't had no rehearsals afore-
hand, and I did the patter quite permiBcnous.
There was not much talk, to be sure, required
then; and what little there was, consisted
merely in calling out the names of the figures
as they came up, and these my master
prompted me with from inside the fbune.
But little as there was for me to do, X know I
never could have done it, if it hadnt been for
the spirits — the false spirits, you see (a little
drop of gin), as my master guv me in the
morning. The first time as ever I made my
appearance in public, I collected as much as
eight shillings, and my master said, after the
peiformance was over, 'You'll do I' You see
I was partly in livery, and looked a little bit
decent like. After this was over, I kept on
going out with my master for two years, as I
had agreed, and at the end of that time I had
saved enough to start a show of my own. I
bought the show of old Porsini, the man as
first brought Punch into the streets of Eng-
land. To be Biure, there was a woman over
here with it before then. Her name was
I can't think of it just now, but she never per-
formed in the streets, so we consider Porsini
as our real forefather. It isnt much more nor
setftDty years since Porsini (he was a weny
old man when he died, and blind) showed
the hexhibidon in the streets of London. I've
heerd tell that old Porsini used to take very
often as much as ten pounds a-day, and he
used to sit down to his fowls and wine, and
the very best of everything, like the first
gennelman in the land; indeed, he made
enough monev at the business to be quite a
tip-top gennelman, that he did. But he never
took care of a halfpenny he got. He was that
independent, that if he was wanted to perform,
sir, he'd come at his time, not your'n. At
last, he reduced himself to want, and died in
St. Giles's workhouse. Ah, poor fellow ! he
oughtn't to have been allowed to die where he
did, after amusing the public for so many
years. Every one in London knowed him.
Lords, dukes, princes, squires, and wagabonds
— all used to stop to laugh at his performance,
and a funny clever old fellow he was. He was
past performing when I bought my show of
him, and werry poor. He was living in the
Coal-yard, Drury-lone, and had scarcely a bit
of food to eat. He had spent all he had got
in drink, and in treating friends, — aye, any
one, no matter who. He didn't study the
world, nor himself neither. As fast as the
money came it went, and when it was gone,
why, he'd go to work and get more. His
show was a very inferior one, though it were
the fust — nothing at all like them about now
— nothing near as good. If you only had four
sticks then, it was quite enough to make
plenty of money out of, so long eis it wns
Punch. I gave him thirty-five shillings for
the stand, figures and all. I bought it cheap,
you see, for it was thrown on one side, and
was of no use to any one but such as myself.
There was twelve figures and the other happa-
ratus, such as the gallows, ladder, horse, bell,
and stuffed dog. The characters was Punch,
Judy, Child, Beadle, Scaramouch, Nobody,
Jack Ketch, the Grand Senoor, the Doctor,
the Devil (there was no Ghost used then).
Merry Andrew, and the Blind Man. These
last two kerrackters are quite done with now.
The heads of the kerrackters was all carved in
wood, and dressed in the proper costmne of
the country. There was at that time, and is
now, a real carver for the Punch business.
He was dear, but werry good and hexcellent.
His Punch's head was the best as I ever seed.
The nose and chin used to meet quite close
together. A set of new figures, dressed and
all, would come to about fifteen pounds. Each
head costs five shillings for the bare carving
alone, and every figure that we has takes at
least a yard of cloth to dress him, besides
ornaments and things tliat comes werry ex-
pensive. A good show at the present time
will cost three pounds odd for the stand alone
— that's includmg baize, the frx)ntispiece, the
back scene, the cottage, and the letter doth,
or what is called the drop-scene at the
theatres. In the old ancient style, the back
scene used to pull up and change into a gaol
scene, but that^s all altered now.
" We've got more upon the comic business
now, and tries to do more with Toby than
with the prison scene. The prison is what
we calls the sentimental style. Formerly
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
45
L^
Tol>y was only a stuffed figure. It was Pike
wlio first hit upon hintrodudng a live dog,
and a great hit it were— 4t made a grand
alteration in the hezhibition, for now the per-
formance is called Punch and Toby a» well
There is one Punch about the streets at
present that tries it on with three dogs, but
that ain't much of a go — too much of a good
thing I calls it. Punch, as I said before, is
a drama in two hacts. We don't drop the
scene at the end of the first — the drum and
pipes strikes up instead. The first act we
consider to end with Punch being taken to
prison for the murder of his wife and child.
The great difficulty in performing Punch
cr^nsists in the speaking, which is done by a
call, or whistle in the mouth, such as this
here.** (He then produced the call from his
waistcoat pocket. It was a small fiat instru-
ment, made of two curved pieces of metal
about the size of a knee-buckle, bound toge-
ther with black thread. Between these was a
plate of some substance (apparently silk),
which he sud was a secret. The call, he told
me. was timed to a musical instrument, and
Uxik a considerable time to learn. He after-
wards took firom his pocket two of the small
metallic plates unbound. He said the compo-
ution they were made of was also one of the
"secrets of the purfession." They were not
tin, nor zinc, because " both of them metals
wt-re poisons in the mouth, and hii\jurious to
the constitutxon.") "These calls," he con-
tinued, **we often sell to gennelmen for a
sovereign a-piece» and for that we give 'em a
receipt how to use them. They ain't whistles,
but calls, or unknown tongues, as we some-
times names 'em, because with them in the
mouth we can pronotmce each word as plain
as any parson. We have two or three kinds
— one for out-of-doors, one for in-doors, one
for spcaidng and for singing, and another for
selling. I've sold many a one to gennelmen
puing along, so I generally keeps a hextra one
with me. Porsini brought the calls iuto this
country with him firom Italy, and we who are
now in the purfession have all learnt how to
make and use them, either from him or those
as he had tatight 'em to. I lamt the use of
mine from Porsini himself. My master
whom I went out with at first would never
teach me, and was werry partiekler in keeping
it all secret frtnn me. Porsini taught me the
call at the time I bought his show of him. I
vas six months in {Meeting myself in the
use of it. I kept practising away night and
morning with it, until I got it quite perfect.
It was no use tiying at home, 'cause it sounds
quite different in the hopen hair. Often
vfaen I've made 'em at home, I'm obliged to
take the calls to pieces after tiying 'em out
in the streets, they're been made upon too
weak a scale. When I was practising, I used
to go into the parks, and fields, and out-of.
the-w«r plAoes, so as to get to know how to
use it m the hopen hair. Now I'm reckoned
one of the best speakers in the whole pmf es-
sion. When I made my first appearance as a
regular performer of Punch on my own
account, I did feel uncommon narvous, to be
sure : though I know'd tho people couldn't see
me behind tho baize, still I felt as if all the
eyes of the country were upon me. It was as
much as hever I could do to get the words
out, and keep the figures firom shaking.
When I struck up the first song, my voice
trembled so as I tliought I never should be
able to get to the hend of Uie first hact. I
soon, however, got over that there, and at
present I'd play before the whole bench of
bishops as cool as a cowcumber. We always
have a pardncr now to play the drum and
pipes, and collect the money. This, however,
is only a recent dodge. In older times we
used to go about Yi\\Xi a trumpet — that was
Porsini's ancient style ; but now that's stopped.
Only her migesty's mails may blow trumpets
in the streets at present. The fust person
who went out with me was my wife. She
used to stand outside, and keep the boys from
peeping through the baize, whilst I was per-
forming behind it; and she used to collect
the money afterwards as well. I carried the
show and trumpet, and she the box. She's
been dead these five years now. Take one
week with another, all through the year, I
should say I made then five pounds regular.
I have taken as much as two pounds ten
shillings in one day in the streets ; and I used
to think it a bad day's business at that time if
I took only one pound. You can see Punch
has been good work — a money-making busi-
ness— and beat all mechanics right out. If I
could take as much as I did when I first
began, what must my forefathers have done,
when the business was five times as good as
ever it were in my time ? Why, I leaves you to
judge what old Porsini and Pike must have
made. Twenty years ago I have often and
often got seven shillings and eight shillings
for one hexhibition in the streets : two shillings
and three shillings I used to think low to get
at one collection ; and many times Pd perform
eight or ten times in a day. Wo didn't care
much about work then, for we could get money
fast enough; but now I often show twenty
times in the day, and get scarcely a bare
living at it arter all. That shows the times,
you know, sir — what things was and is now.
Arter performing in the streets of a day we
used to attend private parties in the hevening,
and get sometimes as much as two pounds for
the hexhibition. This used to be at the juve-
nile parties of the nobility ; and the perform-
ance lasted about an hour and a half. For a
short performance of half-an-hour at a gennel-
man's house we never had less than one
potmd. A performance outside the house
was two shillmgs and sixpence ; biit we often
got as much as ten shillings forit% I have
performed afore almost all the nobility. Lord
— ^ was particular partial to us, and one of
46
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
our greatest patronizers. At the time of the
Police Bill I met him at Cheltenham on my
travels, and he told me as he had saved
Punch's neck once more; and it's through
him principally that we are allowed to exhibit
in the streets. Punch is exempt from the
Police Act. If ;ou read the hact throughout,
you won't find Punch mentioned in it. But
all I've been telling you is about tlte business
as it was. What it i<, is a werry different
oonsam. A good day for us now seldom gets
beyond five shillings, and thot's between
m^'self and my pardner, who plays the drum
and pipes. Often we are out all day, and get
a mere nufiiug. Many days we have been out
and taken nu£Bng at all — that's werry common
when wo dwells upon hordera. By dwelling
on borders, I means looking out for gcnnelmcn
what want us to play in front of their houses.
When we strike up in the hopeu street we take
upon a haverage only threepence a show. In
course we viay do more, but that's about the
sum, take one street performance with another.
Them kind of performances is what we calls
* short showing.' We gets the halfpence and
hooks it A * long pitch ' is tlie name we gives
to performances that lasts about half-an hour
or more. Them long pitches we confine
solely to street comers in public thorough-
fares ; and then we take about a sliilliug upon
a haverage, and more if it's to bo got — we
never turns away nuffing. ' Boys, look up
your fardens,' says the outside man ; * it ain't
half over yet, we'll show it all through.' The
short shows we do only in private by-streets,
and of them we can get through about twenty
m the day ; that's as much as we can tackle
—ten in the morning, and ten in the after-
noon. Of the long pitches we can only do
eight in the day. We start on our rounds at
nine in the morning, and remain out till dark
at night. We gets a snack at the publics on
our road. The best hourn for Punch ere in
the morning from nine till ten, because then
the children are at home. Alter that, you
know, they goes oiut with the maids for a
walk. From twelve tall three is good again,
and then Irom six till nine; that's because
the children are noostly at home at them
hours. We make much more by borders fur
performance houttide the gonnel men's houses,
than we do by performing in public in tlie
hopen streets. Monday is the best day for
street business; Friday is no day at all,
because then iha poor people has spent all
their BM>ney. If we was to pitch on a Friday,
we shouldn't take a halfpenny in the streets,
so we in general on that day goes round for
horders. Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday
is the best days for us with hordera at gennel-
men's houses* We do much better in the
spring than at any other time in the year,
excepting holiday time, at Midsummer and
Christmas. That's what we call Punch's
season. We do most at hevening parties in
the holiday time, and if there's a pin u> choose I
between them, I should say Christmas holi-
days was the best. For attending hevouing
parties now we generally get one pound and
our refreshments — as much more as they like
to give us. But the business gets slacker and
slacker every season. Where I went to ten
parties twenty years ago, I don't go to two now.
People isn't getting tired of our performances^
but stingier — that's iL Everybody looks at
their money now afore they parts with it, and
gennelfolks haggles and cheapens us down to
shillings and sixpences, as if they was guineas
in the holden tune. Our business is weriy
■ much like hackney-coach work ; we do best in
vet vethcr. It looks like rain this evening,
and I'm imoommon glad on it, to be sure.
You see, the vet keeps the children in-doors
all day, and then they want^ something to
quiet 'em a bit ; and the mother:^ and fathers,
to pacify tlie dears, gives us a border to per-
form. It mustn't rain cats and dogs — that's
as bad as no rain at aU. What we likes is a
regular good, steady Scotch mist, for then w©
takes double what we takes on other days.
In summer we docs little or nothing ; the
children are out all day ei^oying themselves
in the parks. The best pitch of all in London
is Leicester-square ; there's all sorts of classes,
you see, passing there. Then comes Hegent-
strcet (the comer of Burlington-street is un-
common good, an 4 there's a good publican
til ere besides). Bond-street ain't no good
now. Oxford-street, up by Old Cavendish-
street, or Oxford-market, or Wells- street, are
all favourite pitches for Punch. We don't do
much in the City. People has their heads all
full of business there, and them as is greedy
artcr the money ain't no friend of Punch's.
Tottenham-court-road, the New-road, and all
the henvirons of Londoui is pretty goodg
Hampstead, tho', ain't no good; they've got
too poor there. Id sooner not go out at all
tlian to Ilompsteod. Belgrave-square, and all
about that part, is uncommon good ; but whei*d
there's many chapels Punoh won't do at alL
I did once, tliougfa, strike up hoppositlon to a
street preacher wot was a holding forth in the
New-road, and did uncommon well. All his
flock, 08 he called 'em, left him, and come
over to look at mo. Punch and preaching is
two difi'erent creeds — hopposition parties, I
may say. We in generally walks from twelve
to twenty mile every day, and carries the
show, which weighs a good half-hundred, at
the least. Arter great exertion, our woice
werry often fails us; for speaking all day
through the *■ call ' is werry trying, 'specially
when we are chirruping up so as to bring the
children to the vinders* The boys is the
greatest nuisances we has to contend with.
Wherever we goes we are sure of plenty of
boys for a hindrance; but they've got no
money, bother 'em ! and they'll follow us for
milos, so that we're often compelled to go
miles to awoid 'em. Many ports is swarming
with boys, such as VitechapeL SpitalfieldSy
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOH.
47
s the wont place for boys I ever come
ir; they^ like flies in sommer there,
mnch more thicker. I never shows my
within miles of them parts. Chelsea,
0, has an nneommon lot of boys; and
ferer we know the children swarm, there's
spots we makes a point of awoiding.
', the boys is snch a hobstruction to our
onnance, that often we are obliged to drop
cnrtain for *em. They'll throw one ano-
's ei^ into the frame while I*m inside on
dd do what we will, we can't keep 'em from
ng their fingers through the baize and
ing holes to peep through. Then they will
» tapping the drum ; but the worst of all
ie most of *em ain't got a farthing to bless
aseWes with, and they ttnll shove into the
places. Soldiers, again, wc don't like,
''re got no money — no, not even so much
ockets, sir. Nusscs ain*t no good. Even
e mothers of the dear little children has
n 'em a penny to spend, wliy the nnsses
s H from 'em, and keeps it for ribbins.
letimes we can coax a penny out of the
iren, hnt the nusses knows too much to
gammoned by us. Indeed, servants in
•raliy don't do the thing what's right to
.some is good to u.«, but the most of 'em
hove x>oundago out of what we gets.
lit sixpence out of every half-crown is
t the footman takes from us. We in
erally goes into the country in the summer
i for two or three months. Watering-
res is wenry good in July and August.
leh mostly goes down to the sea-side
1 die quatity. Drighton, though, ain't no
Tont; the Pavilion's done up with, and
nefinv Punch has' discontinued his visits.
don't put np at the trompers' houses on
tzavels, but m generally inns is where we
rs; because we considers ourselves to be
ve the otlier showmen and mendicants.
Toe lodging-houso as I stopped at once in
nrick, there was as many as fifty staying
m what got their living by street perform-
w the greater part were Italian boys and
1. There are altogether as many as six-
I Pondi-and-Judy frames in England.
hi of these is at work in London, and the
er eight in the countiy; and to each of
le frnnes there are two men. We are all
ninted with one another ; are all sociable
9tlicr, and know where each other is, and
d ^biej are a-dcing on. When one comes
M^ another goes out; that's the way wo
seed through Hfe. It wouldn't do for
to go to the same place. If two of us
pens to meet at one town, we jine, and
i pardaciB, and share the money. One
I one waj, and one another, and we meet
igbt, and reckon up over a sociaUe pint
i glees. We shift pardneis so as each may
V boir much the other has taken. It's
common practice for the man what per-
n Pmich to share with the one wot plays
dnmi end pipes — each has half wot ia
collected; but if the pordner can't play the
drum and pipes, and only carries the frame,
and collects, then his share is but a third of
what is taken till he learns how to perform
himself. The street performers of London
lives mostly in little rooms of their own ; they
has generally wives, and one or two children,
who are brought up to the business. Some
lives about the Westminster-road, and St.
George's East. A great many are in Lock's-
fields — they are all the old school that way.
Then some, or rather the principal part of
the showmen, are to be found about lisson-
grove. In this neighbourhood there is e
house of call, where they all assembles in the
evening. There are a very few in Briuk-lane,
Spitalfields, now ; that is mostly deserted by
showmen. The West end is the great resort
of all ; fur it's there the money lays, and there
tho showmen abound. We aU know one
another, and can tell in what part of the
country the others are. We have intelligence
by letters from all ports. There's a Punch I
knows on now is either in the Isle of Man, or
on his way to it."
Punch Talk.
'* * Bona parlore ' means language ; name of
patter. ' Yeute munjare ' — no food. ♦ Yeute
Icnte' — no bed. * Yeute bivare ' — no drink.
I've ' yeute mui^jore,' and * yeute bivare,* and,
what's worse, * yeute lente.' This is better than
the costers' talk, because that ain't no slang
at all, and this is a broken Italian, and much
higher than the costers' lingo. We know what
o'clock it is, besides."
Scene with two Punchmen,
** * How arc you getting on ?' I might say to
another Punchman. * Ultra cateva,' he'd say.
If I was doing a little, I'd say, *Bonar.' Let us
have a 'shant a bivare' — pot o' beer. If we
has a good pitch we never tell one another, f(u:
business is business. If they know we've a
* bonar' pitch, theyll oppose, which makes it
bad.
" • Co. and Co.* is our term for partner, or
* questa questa,' as well. • Ultray cativa,' — no
bona. *Slumareys' — figures, frame, scenes,
properties. » Slum ' — call, or unknown tongue.
* Ultray cativa slum ' — no t a good oalL ' Tam-
bora' — drum; that's Italian. « Pipares* —
pipes. * Questra home a vardiing the dnm,
scapar it, Orderly' — there's someone a looking
at the alum. Be off quickly. ' Fielia' is a
child ; * Home' is a man ; * Dona,' a fSemale ;
' Gharfering-homa ' — talking-man, policeman.
Policeman can't interfere with us, we're sanc-
tioned. Punch is exempt out of the Police
Act. Some's rery good men, and some on
'em are tyrants ; but generally speaking they're
an worry kind to us, and allows us every privi-
lege. That's a flattery, you know, because
you'd better not meddle with them. QviUty
always gains its esteem."
The man here took a large dasp-knifb ont
of his breeches pocket.
48
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
'* This here knife is part of Punch's tools
or materials, of great utility, for it cannot be
done without The knife serves for a
hammer, to draw nails and drive them in
again, and is very Iiondy on a country road to
cut a beefsteak — not a mistake — Well, ye can-
not cut a mistake, can ye ? — and is a real poor
man's friend to a certainty.
•* This here is the needle that completes our
tools {iakez out a needle from inside his waistcoat
collar,) and is used to sew up our cativa stumps,
that is. Punch's breeches and Judy's petticoats,
and his master's old clothes when they're in
holes. I likes to have everything tidy and re-
spectable, not knowing where I'm going to per-
form to, for every day is a new day tLat we never
see afore and never shall see again ; we do not
know the produce of this world, being luxurant
(that's moral), being humane, kind, and
generous to all our society of life. We mends
our cativa and slums when they gets teearey (if
you was to show that to some of our line they'd
be horrified ; they can't talk so affluent, you
know, in all kinds of black slums). Under the
hedgeares, and were no care varder us
questa — * questa' is a shirt — pronimciation
for quostra homa.
** Once, too, when I was scarpering with my
culling in the monkey, I went to meudare the
cativa slums in a churchyard, and sat down
under the tombs to stitch 'em up a bit, thinking
no one would varder us there. But Mr.
Crookshank took us off there as we was a
sitting. 1 know I'm the same party, 'cos Joe
seen the print you know and draVd quite
nat'ral, as now in print, with the slumares a
If^'ing about on all the tombstones round us."
The Punchman at the Theatre.
" I used often when a youth to be very fond
of plays and romances, and frequently went to
theatres to learn knowledge, of which I think
there is a deal of knowledge to be leamt from
those places (that gives the theatres a touch
— helps them on a bit). I was very partial
and fond of seeing Ilomeau and Juliet;
Otheller; and the Knights of St John, and
tiie Pret^ Gal of Peerlesspool ; Macbeth and
the Three Dancing Witches. Don Goovamey
pleased me best of all though. What took me
uncommon were the funeral purcession of
Juliet — it affects the heart, and brings us to
our nat'ral feelings. I took my ghost from
Bomeau and Juliet; the ghost comes from
the graye, and it's beautiful. I used to like
Kean, the principal performer. Oh, admirable !
most admirable he were, and especially in
Otheller, for then he was like my Jim Crow
here, and was always a great friend and sup-
porter of his old friend I^imch. Otheller
murders his wife, ye know, like Punch does.
OUieller kills her, 'cause the green • eyed
monster has got into his 'art, and he being so
extremely fond on her; but Punch kills his'n
by accident, though he did not intend to do it,
for the Act of Parliament against husbands
beating wives was not known in his time. A
most excellent law that there, for it causes
husbands and wives to be kind and natural
one with the other, all through the society of
life. Judy irritates her husband. Punch, for
to strike the fatal blow, vich at the same time,
vith no intention to commit it, not knowing
at the same time, being rather out of his mind,
vot he vas about I hope this here will be a
good example both to men and wives, always
to be kind and obleeging to each other, and
that will help them through the mainder with
peace and happiness, and will rest in peace
with all mankind (that's moral). It must be
well worded, ye know, that's my, beauty.*
Mr, Punches Refreshment,
" Always Mr. Punch, when he performs to
any nobleman's juvenile parties, he requires a
litUe refreshment and sperrits before com-
mencing, because the peribrmance will go far
superior. But where teetotallers is he plays
very mournful, and they don't have the best
parts of the dramatical performance. Cos
pump-vater gives a person no heart to exhibit
his performance, where if any sperrits is given
to him he woold be sure to give the best of
satisfaction. I likes where I goes to perform
for the gennelman to ring the bdl, and say to
the butler to bring this here party up whatever
he chooses. But Punch is always moderate ;
he likes one eye wetted, then the tother
after; but he likes the best: not particular
to brandy, for fear of his nose of frtding,
and afeerd of his losing the colour. All thea-
trical people, and even the great Edmund
Kean, used to take a drop before commencing
perfoi-mance, and Punch must do the same,
for it enlivens his sperrits, cheers his heart
up, and enables liim to give the best of satis-
faction imaginable."
The Hisiory of Punch.
'* There, ore hoperas and romamces. A
romamce is far different to a hopera, you Imow;
for one is interesting, and the other is dull and
void of apprehension. The romance is the in-
teresting one, and of the two I likes it the best;
but let every one speak as they find — that's
moral. Jack Sheppard, you know, is a romaznoe,
and a fine one ; but Punch is a hopera— a hup-
roar, we calls it, and the most pleasing and most
interesting of all as was ever produced, Pundi
never was beat and never wHl, being the oldest
performance for many hundred years, and now
handed down to prosperity (there's a fine moral
in it, too).
•* The history or origination of Punch— (neyer
put yerself out of yer way for me, I'm one of
the happiest men in existence, and gives no
trouble) — is taken from Italy, and brought over
to England by Porsini, and exhibited in the
streets of London for the first time fr^m sixty
to seventy years a^o ; though he was not the
first man who exhibited, for there was a female
here before him, but not to perform at all in
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
40
IKiblio — name nnknown, but handed down to
Iffosperitj. She brought the figures and
frame oyer with her, but nerer showed
'em— keeping it an unknown secret Porsini
came frtun Hitalj, and landed in England,
and exhibited his performance in the streets
of London, and realized an immense sum
of money. Porsini always carried a mm-
bottle in his pocket ('cause Punch is a
nmi fellow, ye see, and he's very fond of rum),
and drinked out of this unbeknown behind the
baize afore he went into the frame, so that
it shoold lay in his power to give the audience
a most excellent performance. He was a man
as gave the greatest satisfaction, and he was
the first man that brought a street horgan into
England from Hitaly. His name is handed
down to prosperity among all classes of society
mlife.
"At first, the performance was quite dif-
ferent then to what it is now. It was all sen-
timental then, and very touching to the feelings,
and fall of good morals. The first part was
only made up of the killing of his wife and
babby, and the second with the execution of
the hangman and killing of the devil — that
was the original drama of Punch, handed down
to prosperity for 800 years. The killing of
the devU makes it one of the most moral plays
as is, for it stops Satan's career of life, and
then we can all do as we likes afterwards.
** Porsini hved like the first nobleman in
the land, and realized an immense deal of
money during his lifetime ; we all considered
him to be our forefather. He was a very old
man when he died. I've heard tell he used
to take veiy often as much as 10/. a-day, and
now it's come down to little more than
10^ ; and he u^ed to sit down to his fowls
and wine, and the very best of luxuriousness,
like the first nobleman in the world, such as
a bottle of wine, and cetera. At last he re-
duced himself to want, and died in the work-
house. Ah ! poor fellow, he didn't ought to
have been let die where he did, but misfortunes
will happen to all — that's moral. Every one
in London knowed him : lords, dukes, squires,
princes, and wagabones, all used to stop and
laugh at his pleasing and merry interesting per-
formance ; and a fUnny old fdlow he was, and
80 fond of his snuff. His name is writ in the
aimaals of history, and handed down as long
as grasa grows and water runs — ^for when grass
eetaes to grow, ye know, and water ceases to
ton, this worid will be no utility ; that's moral.
** Pike, the second noted street performer of
Pmich, was Porsini's apprentice, and he suc-
eeeded him alter his career. He is handed down
IS a most elerer exhibitor of Punch and show-
man— 'caose he used to go about the country
irith waggons, too. He exhibited the per-
formance for many years, and at last came to
decay, and died in the workhouse. He was
the first inventor of the live dog called Toby,
■nd a great invention it was, being a great un-
dertaking of a new and excellent addition to
I Punch's performance — that's well worded—
we must place the words in a superior manner
to please the public.
" Then if, as you see, all our forefathers
went to decay aud died in the workhouse,
what prospect have we to look forward' to
before us at the present time but to share the
same fate, unless we meet with sufficient en-
couragement in this life ? But hoping it wiU
not be so, knowing tliat there is a new generation
and a new exhibition, we hope the public at large
will help and assist, and help us to keep our
head above water, so that we shall never float
down the river Thames, to be picked up,
carried in a shell, coroner's inquest held,
taken to the workhouse, popped into the
pithole, and tliere's an end to another poor old
Punch — that's moral.
" A footman is far superior to a showman,
'cause a showman is held to be of low degrade,
and are thought as such, and so circumstan-
tiated as to be looked upon as a mendicant ;
but still we are not, for collecting ain't begging,
it's only selliciting ; 'cause parsons, you know
(I gives them a rub here), preaches a sermon
and collects at the doors, so I puts myself on
the same footing as they — that's moral, and
it's optional, ye know. If I takes a hat round,
they has a plate, and they gets sovereigns
where we has only browns ; but we are thank-
ful for all, and always look for encouragement,
and hopes kind support from all classes of
society in life.
" Punch has two kind of performances—
short shows and long ones, according to
den are. Short shows are for cativa denare,
and long pitches for the bona denare. At
the short shows we gets the ha'pence and
steps it — scofare, as we say; and at the
long pitches ve keeps it up for half an
hour, or an hour, maybe — not particular, if
the browns tumble in well — for we never
leave off while Uiere's a major solde (that's a
halfpenny), or even a quartercen (that's a
farden). to be made. The long pitches we
fixes at the principal street-comers of London.
"We never turn away no think.
" * Boys, look up your fardens,' says the out-
side man ; ' it ain't half over yet, and well show
it all through.'
" Punch is liko the income-tax gatherer,
takes all we can get, and never turns away
nothink — that is our moral. Punch is like
the rest of the world, ho has got bad morals,
but very few of them. The showman inside
the frame says, while he's a working the
figures, *Culley, how are you a getting on?'
* Very inferior indeed, I'm sorry to say, master.
The company, though very respectable, seems
to have no pence among 'em.' * What quanta
denare have you chafered ? ' I say. * Soldi
m%jor quartereen;' tliat means, three half-
pence three fardens : * that is all I have accu-
mulated amongst this most respectable and
niunerous company.' ' Never mind, master,
the showman will go on ; try the generosity of
50
LOSDOS LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
tho pablio once again.' ' Well, I think it's of
very little utility to collect round again, for
I've met with that poor encouragement.' * Never
mind, master, show away. Til go round again
and chance my luck ; the ladies and gentlemen
have not seen sofBcient, I think. Well,
master, I've got tres miyor ' — that is, three half-
pence— * more, and now it's all over this time.
Boys, go home and say your prayers,' we says,
and steps it Such scenes of life we see ! No
person would hardly credit what we go
through. We travel often yeute muiyore
(no food), and oftentimes we're in fluence, ac-
cording as luck runs.
" We now principally dwells on orders at
noblemen's houses. The sebiibs of London
pays us far better than the busy town of Lon-
don. When we are dwelling on orders, we
goes along the streets chirripping * lioo-
tooerovey ooey-ooey-ooorovey;' that means,
Any more wanted? that's the pronounciation of
the call in the old Italian style. Toorovey-to-
roo-to-roo-toroo-torooey ; that we does when
we are dwelling for orders mostly at noble-
men's houses. It brings the juveniols to tlie
window, and causes the greatest of attractions
to the children of noblemen's families, both
rich and poor : lords, dukes, «arls, and squires,
and gentlefolks.
•* * Call-hunting,' — that's another term for
dwelling on orders — pays better than pitch-
ing ; but orders is wery casual, and pitching
is a certainty. We're sure of a brown or
two in the streets, and noblemen's work don't
come often. We must have it authentick, for
wo traveU many days and don't succeed in
getting one ; at other times we are more lluent ;
but when both combine together, it's merely
a living, after all's said and done, by great
exertion and hard perseverance and asidity,
for the business gets slacker and slacker every
year, and I expect at last, it will come to the
dogs — not Toby, because he is dead and gone.
Peoi)le isn't getting tired with our per-
formances ; they're more delighted than ever ;
but they're stingier. Evcrjbody looks twice
at their money uforo they parts with it. — Thats
a rub at the mean ones, and they wants it un-
common bad.
*'And then, sometimes tho blinds is all
drawed down, on accoimt of the sun, and that
cooks our goose ; or, it's too hot for people to
stop and varder — that means, see. In the
cold days, when wo pitch, people stops a few
minutes, drops their browns, and goes away
about their business, to make room for more.
The spring of the year is the best of tho four
seasons for us.
^ A sailor and a lass holf-scos over we like
best of aU. He will tip his mag. We always
ensure a few pence, and sometimes a shilling,
of them. We are fond of sweeps, too ; they'i-e
a sure brown, if they've got one, and they'll give
before many a gentleman. But what we can't
abide nohow is the shabby genteel — them
altray cativa, and no mistake : for theyll stand
with their mouths wide open, like n Bnt-
cracker, and is never satisfied, and is too grind
even to laugh. It's too muefa trouble to eazrj
ha'pence, and they've never no change, or
else they'd give us some ; in &ct, they've bo
money at all, they wants it all for, dec.**
Mr, Pmich'i Fiywm,
" This is Punch ; this his wife, Judy. They
never was married, not for this eight hundred
years — in the original drama. It is a drama
in two acts, is Punch. There was a Miss
Polly, and she was Punch's mistress, and dressed
in silks and satins. Judy catches Punch with
her, and that there causes all the disturbance.
Ah, it's a beautiful history ; there's a deal of
morals with it, and there's a large volume
wrote about it. It's to be got now.
" This here is Judy, their only child. She's
tliree years old come to-morrow, and heir to all
his estate, which is only a saucepan without a
handle.
** Well, then I brings out the Beadle.
" Punch's nose is the homament to his face.
It's a great wolue, and the hump on his back
is never to be got rid on, being bom with him,
and never to be done without. Punch was
silly and out of his mind — which is in the
drama — and the cause of his throwing his
child out of winder, vich he did. Judy went
out and left him to nurse the child, and the
child gets so terrible cross he gets out of
patience, and tries to sing a song to it, and
ends by chucking it into the street.
*' Punch is cunning, and up to all kinds of
antics, if he ain't out of his mind. Artful like
My opinion of Punch is, he's very incentrie,
with good and bad morals attached. Very
good he was in regard to benevolence ; be-
cause, you see, in the olden style there was
a blind man, and he used to come and ax cha-
riry of him, and Punch used to pity him and
give him a trifle, you know. This is in the
olden style, from Porsini you know.
*' The caning on his face is a great art, and
there's only one man as does it reg'lar. His
nose and chin, by meeting together, we thinks
the great beauty. Oh, he's admirable! — Ho was
very fond of hisself when he was alive. His
name was Puneliinello, and we callshim Punch.
That's partly for short and partly on account
of tlie boys, for they calls it Punch in hell 0.
* Oh, there's Punch m hell,' they'd say, and gen-
nelfolks don't like to hear tlicm words.
" Punch has very small legs and smnll arms.
It's quite out of portion, in course; but still it's
nature, for folks with big bellies generally has
thin pins of their own.
" His dress has never been altered ; the use
of his higli hat is to show his lialf-foolish
head, and the other parts is after the best
olden fashion.
• Judy, you see, is very ugly. She represents
Pimch ; cos, you see, if the two comes togetlier,
it generally happens that they're summat
alike ; and you see it's because his wife were
LONDON LABOUR AND TBE LONDON POOR.
51
10 oglj that lie had a mistress. You see,
a head like that there wouldn't please most
Thai
> miatFeas, PoUj, dances with Punch, jnst
like a lady in a drawin^f-room. There ain't
DO pievance between lum and Judy un ac-
ooant of Miss Polly, as she's called. That's
the oiden style of all, cos Judy don't know
nothing about it
** Mias PoUy was left out because it wasn't
exaetly moral ; opinions has changed : we ain't
better, I fancy. Such things goes on, but
peq^ don't like to let it be seen now, that's
tiie dilEBreince.
I "Judy's dress, you see, is far different, bless
I joa, than Miss Polly's. Judy's, yon see, is
bed-ftimiture stnfi; and Polly's all silk and
^ satin. Yes, that's the way of the world, — the
• wife comes off second-best.
I ^ The baby's like his father, he's his pet all
, over tnd the pride of his heart; wouldn't take
an the world for it, you know, though he does
throw him out of window. He's got his father's
I noee, and is his daddy all over, from the top of
' his head to the tip of his toe. He never was
' wtaned.
I ** Pnneh,y3a know, is so red through drink.
, He'd look nothing if his nose were not deep
: scarlet. Punch used to drink hard one time,
I and so he does now if he con get it. ELis
babby is red all the same, to correspond.
I ** This is the Beadle of the parish, which
i tries to quell all disturbances but finds it im-
possible to do it. The Beadle has got a very
I reddish nose. He is a ver}- severe, harsh man,
. but Pvnch conimers him. Ye see, he's diessed
I in the olden stf le — a brown coat, with gold lace
and cock'd hat and all. He has to take Punch
up for Idlfing his wife and babby ; but Pimch
I beats the Beadle, for every time ho comes up
I he knodn hxm down.
I *' This next one is the merry Clown, what
tries his rig with Punch, up and down — that's
', a rhyme, you see. This is the merry Clown,
I that tries his tricks all round. This here's
j the new style, for we dwells more on the
eomieal now. In the olden time we used to
I have a aearamouch with a chalk head. He
I laed to torment Punch and dodge bim about,
tin at last Punch used to give him a crock on
the head and smash it all to pieces, and then
I cry out—* Oh dear. Oh dear ; I didn't go to
do it — it was an accident, done on purpose.'
But now we do with Clown and the sausages.
I Scaramouch never talked, only did the ballet
business, dumb motions ; but the Clown speaks
^ theatrical, comic business and seutiuiental.
Pooch bdng silly and out of his mind, the
, Gown persuades Punch that he wants some-
< thing to eat. The Clown gets into the public-
I bouse to try what ho can steal. He pokes his
head out of the window and says, ' Here you
tre, here you are ;• and then he asks Punch
I to give him a helping hand, and so makes
Punch steal the. sausages. They're the very
I best poik-wadding sausages, made six years
ago and warranted fresh, and 11 keep for
ever.
** This here's the poker, about which the
Clown says, ' Would yon like something hot V
Punch says * Yes,' and then the Clown bums
Punch's nose, and aits down on it himself and
bums his breeches. Oh, it's a jolly lark when
I shows it Clown says to Punch, * Don't
make a noise, you'll wake the landlord up.'
The landlord, you see, pretends to be
" Clown says, • You mustn't hollar.' * No,*
says Punch, *I wont;' and still he hollars all
the louder.
" This is Jim Crow : ye see he's got a chain
but he's lost 'his watch. He let it fall on Fish-
street Hill, the other day, and broke it all to
pieces. He's a nigger. He says, * Me like
ebeiy body ;' not ' every,' but * ebery,' cos that's
nigger. Instead of Jim Crow we used formerly
to show the Grand Turk of Sinoa, called
ShallabaUah* Sinoa is nowhere, for he's only
a substance yer know. I can't find Sinoa,
although W^e tried, and thinks it's at the
bottom of the sea where the black fish lays.
" Jim Crow spnmg from Bice from America,
he brought it over here. Then, ye see, being
a novelty, all classes of society is pleased.
Everybody liked to hear *■ Jim Crow' sung, and
so we had to do it. The people used to stand
round, and I used to take some good money
with it too, sir, on Hay-hill. Everybody's
funny now-a-days, and they like comic busi-
ness. They won't listen to anything sensible
or sentimental, but they wants foolishness.
The bigger fool gets the most money. Many
people says, * What a fool, you must lookT
at Uiat. I put my head back. *■ Come on.' * I
shan't. I shall stop a Httle longer.'
** Tliis is the Ghost, that appears to Punch
for destroying his wife and child. She's the
ghost of the two together, or else, by rights,
there ought to be a little ghost as well, but we
should have such a lot to carry about. But
Punch, being surprised at the ghost, falls into
exstericks — represented as such. Punch is
really terrified, for he trembles like a hospen
leaf, cos he never killed his wife. He's got
no eyes and no teeth, and can't see out of his
mouth ; or cannot, rather. Them cant words
ain't grammatical. When Punch sees the
Ghost he lays dov^ii and kicks the bucket, and
represents he's dead.
" The Ghost is very effective, when it comes
up very solemn and moumfiil-like in Bomeau
and Juliet. I took it from that, yer know :
there's a ghost in that when she comes out of
the grave. Punch sits down on his seat and
sings his merry jirng of olden times, ahd don't
see the Ghost till he gets a tap on the cheek,
and then he thinks it's somebody else ; instead
of that, when he turns round, he's most ter-
rible alarmed, putting his arms up and out.
The drum goes very shaky when the Ghost
comes up. A little bit of ' The Dead March in
Saul,' or * Home, sweet Home :' anything like
Ko. LVIIL
'L
62
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
that, slow. We none on us likes to be hurried
to the grave.
** I now takes up the Doctor. This is the
Doctor that cures all sick maids and says,
* Taste of my drugs before you die, you'll say
tliey are well made.' The Doctor always wears
a white ermine wig : rabbit skin wouldn't do,
we can't go so common as that; it's most costly,
cos it was made for him.
^Aflar the Ghost has appeared Punch falls
down, and calls loudly for the Doctor, and
offers 50,000/. for one ; thei^ the Doctor feels
his pulse and says, * Very unfortunate misfor-
tune I I have forgot my spectacles, cos I never
had none. I can see all through it — ^the man's
not dead.
" The Doctor gives Punch physic. That's
stick - lickerish wot he subscribes for him;
but Punch don't like it, though it's a capital
subscription for a cure for the head-ache. (I
dare say, Mr. Mayhew, sir, you thinks me a
very funny fellow.) Punch tries to pay the
Doctor back with his own physic, but he
misses him every time. Doctors don't like
to take their own stuff anyhow.
*' This is the Publican as Punch steals the
sausages from ; he used to be the Grand Turk
of Senoa, or Shallaballah, afore the fashion
changed — for a new world always wants new
things : the people are like babies, they must
have a fresh toy ye know, and every day is
a new day that wc never seed before. — There's
a moral for you ; it'll make a beautiful book
when you comes to have the morals explained.
Te see you might still fancy Punch was the
Grand Turk, for he's got his moustaches still ;
butthe/re getting so fashionable that even
the publicans wears 'em, so it dont matter.
'* This tall figure is the hangman and finisher
of the law, as does the business in the twink-
ling of a bed-post. He's like the income-tax
gatherer, he takes all in and lets none out, for
a guilty conscience needs no accusing. Punch
being condemned to suffer by the laws of his
countiy, makes a mistake for once in his life,
and always did, and always wUl keep a-doing
it. Therefore, by cunningness and artfUlness,
Punch persuades Jock ketch to show him
the wa^ — which ho very * willingly doeth' — to
slip his head into the noose, when Punch
takes the opportunity to pull the rope, after
he has shown him the way, and is exempt for
once more, and quite free.
** Now this is the coffin, and this is the pall.
Punch is in a great way, after he's hung the
man, for assistance, when h^ calls his favour-
ite friend Joey Grimaldi, the clown, to aid and
assist him, because he's afeard that he'll be
token for the crime wot he's committed. Then
the body is placed in the coffin ; but as the un-
dertaker ain't made it long enough, they have
to double him up. The undertaker requests
permission to git it altered. Ye see it's a royal
coffin, with gold, and silver, and copper nails ;
with no plates, and scarlet cloth, cos that's
royalty. The undertaker's forgot the lid of
the coffin, ye see : we don't use lids, cos it
makes them lighter to carr}'.
" This is the pall that covers him over, ta
keep the flies from biting him. We call it
St. Paul's. Don't you see, palls and Paul's is
the same word, with a < to it: it's comic.
That 'ud make a beautiful play, that would.
Then we take out the figures, as I am doing*
now, from the box, and they exaunt with a
dance. * Here's somebody a-coming, make*
haste ! ' the Clown says, and then they exaunt,
you know, or go off.
** This here is tlie Scaramouch that danceff
without a head, and yet has got a head that'll
reach from here to St, Paul's; but it's scarceljr
ever to be seen. Cos his father was my
mother, don't ye see. Punch says that it's a
beautiful figure. Pve only made it lately.
Instead of him we used to have a nobody.
The figure is to be worked with four heads,
that's to say one coming out of each arm, one
from the body, and one from the neck. ( He
touches each part as he speaks.) Scara-
mouch is old-fashioned newly revived. He
comes up for a finisli, ycr know. This figure's
all for dancing, Uie same as the ghost is, and
don't say nothing. Punch being surprised to
see such a thing, don't know what to make
on it. Ho bolts away, for ye see (whispering
and putting up two hands first, and then
using the other, as if working Scaramouch),
I wants my two hands to work him. After
Punch goes away the figure dances to amuse
the public, then he exaunts, and Ptmch comes
up again for to finish the remainder part of his
performance. He sings as if he'd forgot all
that's gone before, and wishes only to amuse
the public at large. That's to show his siOi-
ness and simplicity. He sings comic or sen-
timental, such as 'God save the Queen ;'-i-
that's sentimental ; or * Getting up stairs and
playing on the fiddle;' or * Dusty Bob;* or
* Rory O'More, with the chill off;' — ^them's all
comic, but *■ the Queen's ' sentimental.
" This here is Satan, — we might say the
devil, but that ain't right, and gdnnelfolks dont
like such words. He is now commonly called
* Spring-heeled Jack ; ' or the * Koosian Bear,'
— that's since the war. Ye see he's chained up
for ever ; for if yer reads, it says somewhere
in the Scripture that he's bound down far
two thousand years. I used to read it myself
once; and the figure shows ye that he's
chained up never to be let loose no more.
He comes up at the last and shows himself to
Punch, but it ain't continued long, yer know,
the figure being too frightful for people to see
without being frightened; unless we are on
comic business and showing -him as Spring*
heeled Jack, or the Boosian Bear; and then
we keeps him up a long time. Punch kills
him, puts him on the top of his stick, and
cries, * Hooray ! the devil's dead, and we can
all do as we like ! Good-by, farewell, and it's
all over ! ' But the curtain don't come down,
cos we haven't got none.
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
53
"This here's the belL Stop a minute, I
fngot: this is Punch's comic music, com-
monly called a peanner sixty, — not peanner
forty, cos Punch wants something out of the
common way, — and it plays fifty tunes all at
CBoe. This is the bell which he uses to rattle
in the publican's ears when he's asleep, and
wakes his children all up after the nuss as
put 'em to bed. All this is to show his fool-
ishness and simplicity; for it's one of his
feolish tricks and frolics for to amuse him-
self: but he's a chap as won't stand much
nonsense fh>m other people, because his
morals are true, Just, right, and sound ; al-
Ihongh he does kill his wife and baby, knock
down the Beadle, Jack Ketch, and the Grand
SigDor, and puts an end to the very devil
Imnself.''
Deteripium of Frame and Proscenium.
« * Indies and gents,' the man says outside
the show, afore striking up, *■ I'm now going
10 exhibit a preformance worthy of your no
tioe, and far superior to anythmk you hever
hid a hopportunity of witnessing of before.'
(I am a doing it noiv, sir, as if I was address-
ing a company of ladies and gentlemen, he
added, by way of parenthesis.) ' This is
the original preformance of Punch, ladies
and gents ; and it will always gain esteem. I
■m going to hintroduce a preformance worthy
of your notice, which is the dramatical pre-
fbrmance of the original and old-established
preiSormaiice of Punch, experienced many
jear. I merely call your attention, ladies and
geotB, to the novel attraction which I'm now
•bout to hintroduce to you.
•• * I only merely place this happyratus up
to inform yon what I am about to preform to
you. The preformance will continue for up-
wards of one hour — provising as we meets
wUk smfident encouragement. (That's business,
ye know, master ; just to give 'em to under-
stand that we wants a little assistance afore
we begins.) It wUl surpass anythink you've
bad the hopportunity of witnessing of bofore in
all the hannuals of history. I hope, ladies and
gents, I am not talking too grammatical for
some of you.*
•• That tliere is the address, sir," he con-
tbned, ^ what I always gives to the audience
outside before I begins to preform — just to
let the resx>ectable company know that I am a
working for to get my living by honest
I indnstiy.
•••Those ladies and gents/ he then went
on, as if addressing an imaginary crowd,
• what are a-standing round, a-looking at the
piefbrmance, will, I hope, be as willing to give
«s tl^ is to see. There's many a lady and
lent now at the present moment standing
aroond me, perhaps, whose hearts mi^ht be
food though not in their power.' (This is
PttDch's patter, yer know, outside ; and when
yoQ has to say sll that yourself, you wants the
aflhiency of a methodist parson to do the
talk, I can tell ye.) * Now boys, look up yer
ha'pence ! Who's got a farden or a ha'penny ?
and I'll be the first brown towards it. I aint
particular if it's a half-crown. Now, my lads,
feel in your pockets and see if you've got an
odd copper. Here's one, and who'll be the
next to make it even ? We means to show it
all through, provising we meets with sufficient
encouragement.' (I always sticks to them
words, * sufficient encouragement') 'You'll
have the pleasure of seeing Spring-heeled
Jack, or the Hoosian Bear, and the comical
scene with Joey the clown, and the fryingpan
of sassages!' (That's a kind of gaggery.)
" I'll now just explain to you, sir, the difie-
rent parts of the frame. This here's the
letter-cloth, which shows you all what we per-
forms. Sometimes we has wrote on it —
THE DOMINION OF FANCY,
or.
Punch's Opera :
that fills up a letter-doth; and Punch is
a funcy for every person, you know, who-
ever may fancy it I stands inside here on
this footboard ; and if there's any one up
at the winders in the street, I puts my
foot longways, so as to keep ray nob out of
sight This here is the stage front, or
proceedings (proscenium), and is painted over
with flags and banners, or any dififerent things.
Sometimes there's George and the Dragging,
and the Kile Queen's Arms, (we can have them
up when we like, cos we are sanctioned, and
I've played afore the rile princes). But any-
thing for fireshness. People's tiroo '-i looking
at the Bile Arms, and wants something new
to cause attraction, and so on.
** This here's the playboard, where sits Punch.
The scenes behind are representing a garding
scene, and the side-scenes is a house and a
cottage — they're for the exaunts, you know,
just for convenience. The back scene draws
up, and shows the prison, vnth the winders
all cut out, and the bars showing, the same as
there is to a gaol; though I never was in
one in my life, and I'll take good care I never
shall be.
'* Our speaking instrument is an unknown
secret, cos it's an • unknown tongue,' that's
known to none except those in our own pur-
fession. It's a hiastrument like this which I
has in my hand, and it's tuned to music
We has two or three kinds, one for out-doors,
one for in-doors, one for speaking, one for
singing, and one that's good for nothing, ex-
cept selling on the cheap. They ain't whistles,
but * calls,' or * unknown tongues ; ' and with
them in the mouth we can pronounce each
word as plain as a parson, and with as much
affluency.
" The great difficulty in preforming Punch
consists in speaking with this call in the
mouth — cos it's produced from the lungs : it's
all done from there, and is a great strain, and
requires sucktion — and that's brandy-and-
5i
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOIL
-nater, or smnmAt to moisten the whistle
with.
** We're bound not to drink water by onr
purfession, when we can set anything stronger.
It weakens the nerves, but we always like to
keep in the bounds of propriety, respectability,
and decency. I dnnas my beer with my call
in my mouth, and never takes it out, cos it ex-
poses it, and the boys (hang 'em I) is so in-
qoiaitive. They runs after us, and looks up
m our face tosee howwe speaks ; but we drives
•tem away with civility.
** Punch is a dramatical performance, sir, in
two acta, patronised by the nobility and gentry
at Urge. We don't drop the scene at the end
of the first act, the drum and pipes strikes up
instead. The first act we consider to end
with Punch being took to prison for the
murder of his wife and baby. You can pick
out a good many Pnnoh preformers, without
getting one so well versed as I am in it; they in
general makes such a muifiug concern of it.
A drama, or dramatical preform ance, we calls
it, of the original preformance of Punch. It
ain't a tragedy ; it's both comic and sentimental,
in which way we think proper to preform it.
There's comic parts, as with the Clown and
Jim Crow, and cetera— that's including a
deiJ more, yer know.
" It's a pretty play Punch is, when preformed
well, and one of the greatest novelties in the
world ; and most ancient ; handed down, too,
for many hundred years.
** The prison scene and the baby is what
we calls the sentimental touches. Some folks
where I nreforms will have it most sen-
timental, m the original style. Them families
is generally sentimental theirselves. To
these sentimental folks I'm obliged to pre-
form werry steady and werry slow ; they
won't have no ghost, no coffin, and no devil ;
and that's what I call spiling the preformance
entirely. Ha, ha ! " he added, with a deep sigh,
'* it's the march of intellect that's a doing all
this : it is, sir.
" Other folks is all for the comic, specially
the street people ; and then we has to dwell on
the bell scene, and the nursing the baby, and
the frying-pan, and the sossages, and Jim
Crow.
•* A few years ago Toby was all the go.
Formerly the dog was only a stuffed figure,
and it was Mr. Pike what first hit upon intro-
ducing a live animal ; and a great hit it war.
It made a surprising alteration in the exhibition,
for till lately the preformance was culled Punch
and Toby as well. We used to go about the
streets with three dogs, and that was ad-
mirable, and it did uncommon well as a new
novelty at first, but we can't get three dogs to
do it now. The mother of them dogs, ye see,
was a singer, and had two pups what was
singers too. Toby was wanted to sing and
smoke a pipe as well, shake hands as well as
seize Puach by the nose. When Toby was
quiet, ye see, air, it was the timidation of
Punch's stick, for directly he put it down he
flew at him, knowing at the same time that
Punch was not his master.
^ Punch commences with a song. He doea
roo-too-rooey, and sings the ' Lass of 0-owrie'
down below, and then he comes up, saying,
*Ooy-ey; Oh, yes, I'm a coming. How do
you do, ladies and gents ? ' — ladies alwi^s first •,
and then he bows many times. *• Vm so hiqppj
to see you,' he says ; ' Your most obedient
most humble, and dutiful servant, Mr. Pnnch«'
(Ye see I can talk as afliuent as can be with
the call in my mouth.) ' Ooy-ey, I wishes you
all well and happy/ Then Pimch says to Ihft
drum -and- pipes man, as he puts his hand on^
' How do you do, master? — play up ; play up ft
hornpipe : I'm a most hexceUent dancer ;' and
then Punch dances. Then ye see him
a - dancing the hornpipe ; and after that
Punch says to the pipes, ' Master, I shall
call my wife up, and have a dance ; so he sings
out, * Judy, Judy ! my pratty creetur ! come up
stairs, my darling! I want to speak to you'^
and he knocks on the play-board.— ^ Judy I
Here she comes, bless her little heart!'
Enter Jxt^t.
Punch, What a sweet ereature! what •
handsome nose and chin ! {He pott her om
the /ace very gently.)
Judy. {Slapping him.) Keep quiet, do!
Punch, Don't be cross, my dear, but give mo
a kiss.
Judg. Oh, to be sure, my love. [Z^^y kiu.
Punch. Bless your sweet lips ! {Huggim§
her.) This is melting moments. I'm very
fond of my wife ; we must have a dance.
Judy. Agi'eed. \_They both <
Punch, Get out of the way ! you don't dance
well enough for me. {He hits heron the note.}
Go and fetch the baby, and mind and take
care of it, and not hurt it. [Judg examntu
Judg. {Returning hack with baby.) Taka
care of the baby, while I go and cook the
dumplings.
Punch. {Striking Judg with his right hand.)
Get out of the way ! I'll take care of the baby.
[Judy exauntu
Punch {sits dottm and simgs to the baby) —
"Huah-«-by, baby, upon the tree-top,
Wh^u the wind blows the oiudle will rock ;
When the bouffh breaks the cradle will fidl,
Down oomes the baby and cradle and olL"
[Baby crietm
Punch. {Shaking it.) What a cross boy!
{He tags it dawn on the play-board^ and roll» ii
backwards and forwards, to rock U to ileep, and
sings again.)
*' Oh, slumber, my darlinf;, thy sire k a kfii^i^
Thy mother's a lady so lovely and bright ;
Tho hills and the dales, and the tow'rs which you sec.
They all shall belong, my dear creature, to thee."
(Punch continues rocking the chikL It Miii
cries, and he takes it up in his omu, saying.
What a cross child! I oant a-beor cross
ZOKDON IsJLBOUB AND THE LONDON POOR.
00
ekiUreiu Then he vehemently shakes tt, and
knockt iCt head vp against the side of the pro-
ceeding* several timeSy representing to kill t/, and
%e them tkrtncs U out of the vrinder.)
Enter Jnmr.
Judg. Where's the haby f
Fundi, {In a lemonchotv tone.) I have had
a ndsfortime ; the child was so terrible cross,
I throwed it out of the winder. {Lemontaiion
(fJudg for the loss of her dear child. She goes
into atterisks, and then excites and fetches a cudgel^
end commences beaUng Punch over the head,)
Punch, DoDt be cross, my dear : I didnt go
to do it
Judg. ni pay yer for throwing the child
out of the winder. {She keeps on giving him
knocks of the head^ hut Punch snatches the stick
owy, and commences an attack upon his w'yfe^
end hfots her severely,)
Judy, m go to the constable, and have
joa locked up.
Punch, Go to the de^^L I don't care where
you go. Get out of the way ! {Judg exaunls,
md Punch then sings, ** Cherry ripe" or " Cheer ^
logs, cheer,'* All before is sentimental, now this
here's comic. Punch goes through his roo-too-to-
roory, and then the Beadle comes up.)
Beadle, Hi ! hallo, my boy !
Punch, Hello, my boy. {He gives him a wipe
over the head with his sticky u:hich knocks him
down, but he gets up again.)
Beadle, Do you know, sir, that I've a special
order in my pocket to take you up ?
Punch, And Pve a special order to knock
you down. {He knocks him down with simplicity ^
but not tpith bruUUUy,for the jnvcnial brandies
don't tike to see severity practised.)
Beadle. {Coming up again.) D'ye know, my
boy, that Pve an order to take you up ?
Punch, And I've an order I tell yo to knock
you down. {He sticks him. Punch is a tyrant
to the Beadle, ye know, and if he was took up he
wouldnH go through his rambles, so in course he
isn't.)
Beadle, IVe a warrant for yon, my boy.
Punch, (Striking him.) And that's a warrant
for you, my boy. {The Beadle's a determined
man, ye know, and resolved to go to the ends of
justice as far as possible in his power by special
aulhority, so a quarrel enslioos between them.)
Beadle, You are a blackguard.
Punch, So are you.
{The Beadle hits Punch on the nose, and takes
(ke law in his own Imndsm Punch takes it up mo-
meuiary; strikes the Beadle, and a fight ensluKts,
Tkt Beadle, faint and exhausted, gets up once
mare: then he strikes Punch over the nose, which
» returned pro and con,
Beadle, That's a good 'un.
PmtdL That's a better.
Beadle* That's a topper. {He hits him jolly
hsrd,)
PuntA, (With his cudgel.) That's a wopper.
{Be knocks him out qf his senses, and the Beadle
Enter Merrt Clowx.
Punch sings ** Getting up Stairs,** in quick time,
while tlu Clown is coming up. Clown dances
round Punch in all directions, and Punch with
his cudgel is determined to catch him if possible.
Clown. No bono, allez tooti sweet, Mounseer.
Look out sharp ! Make haste I catch 'em alive !
Here we are! how are youf good morning!
don't yon wish you may get it f Ahl cowai^
strike a white man ! {Clown keeps bobbing vp
and down, and Punch trying to hit all the tkne
till Punch is exhausted nearly.)
(The Clo^n, ye see, sir, is the best friend
to Puncli, he carries him through all his tricks,
and he's a great favorite of Punch's. He's too
cunning for him though, and knows too much
for him, so they both shake hands and make
it up. )
Clown, Now it's all fair ; ain't it. Punch ?
Punch, Yes.
Clown, Now I can begin again.
(You see, sir, the Clown gets over Punch
altogether by his artful ways, and then he be-
gins the same tricks over agiun ; that is, if we
wants a long performance ; if not, we cuts it
off at the other pint But I'm tellkig you the
real original style, sir.)
Clown. Good! you cim't catch me.
{Punch gives him one whack of the head, and
Clown exaunts, or goes off.)
Enter Jm Crow
Jim sings ** Buffalo Gals,** while coming up, and
on entering Punch hits him a whack of the
nose backhanded, and almost breaks it.
Jim. What for you do that? Me nigger!
me like de white man. Him did break my
nose.
Punch. Humbly beg your pardon, I did not
go to help it.
(For as it had been done, you know, it wasn't
likely he could help it after he'd done it — he
couldn't take it away from him again, could
he?)
Jim, "Me beg you de pardon. (For ye see,
sir, he tliinks he's offended Punch.) Nebber
mind, Punch, come and sit down, and we'll
hab a song.
Jim Crow prepares to sing.
Punch, Bravo, Jimmy! sing away, my boy—
give us a stunner while you're at it.
Juc sings.
** I'm a roarer oa the fiddle^
Down in tho ole Viiviuny ;
And I plays it scientific,
like Mnuffr^y Faganinni."
Punch, {Tapping him on the head.) Bravol
well done, Jimmy ! give us another bit of a
song.
Jim, Yes, me wilL ISwgs again.
•• Oh. lubly Rom. Sambo c
Do&tyoa hear tho bapJoT '
Tum, tiun, ttun 1 "
Jim hits Fundi with hia head over the
dO
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
nose, as if butting at him, while he repefti^
turn -turn -turn. Punch offended, beats him
with the stick, and sings —
" Lubly Bom, Sambo coom ;
hon't you hew the bai^o t
Turn, turn, turn!**
Jim, (Ruing.) Oh mi! what for you strike
a nigger? {Holding up hi* ieg.) Me will poko
your eye out. Ready — shoot — bang — fire.
\8havei his leg into Punch's eye,)
Punch, He's poked my eye out! I'll lotjk
out for him for the fUture.
Jim Crow excites, or oxaunis. Exauiit
we calls it in our purfession, sir, — that's goin^
away, you know. He's done his port, yon
know, and ain't to appear again.
Judy has died through Punch's ill usagr
after going for the Beadle, for if she'd done ih< *
before she could'nt ha' fetched the constabli,
you know, — certainly not. The beholders
only behove her to bo dead though, for sin-
comes to life again aflerwards, because, if s)ji
was dead, it would do away with Punch's wiit*
altogether — for Punch is doatingly fond <>f
her, though it's only his fun after all's said
and done.
The Ghost, you see, is only a repersentft
tion, as a timidation to soflen his bad morals,
80 that ho shouldn't do the like again. Thi>
Ghost, to be sure, shows that she's really dea^l
for a time, but it's not in the imitation ; fur
if it was, Judy's ghost (the figure) would W
made like her.
The babby's lost altogether. It's killeil.
It is supposed to be destroyed entirely, but
taken care offer the next time when calk J
upon to preform — as if it were in the nest
world, you know, — that's moral.
Enter Ghost. Punch sings meanwhile'
* Home, sweet Home.' (This is original.) Tbo
Ghost rcpcrsents Uie ghost of Judy, becaunc
he's killed his wife, don't you see, ilie Ghoss)
making her appearance; but Punch don't know
it at the moment. Still he sits down tireil,
and sings in the comer of the frame the son^
of ** Home, sweet Home," wliile the Sperrit ap-
pears to him.
Punch turns round, sees the Ghost, ami
is most terribly timidated. He begins !<>
shiver and shake in great fear, bringing his
guilty conscience to his mind of what he'n
been guilty of doing, and at last he foils down
in a tit of frenzy. Kicking, screeching, hoL
laring, and shouting " Fifty thousand pounds
for a doctor ! " Then he turns on his side, anil
draws hisself double with the screwmatics in
his gills. IGhost ezcitex.
Enter Doctob.
Punch is represented to be dead. This is
the dying speech of Punch.
Doctor. Dear met bless my heart! here'
hl\'e I been running as fast as ever I could
walk, and veiy near tumbled over a straw. I
heard somebody call most lustily for a doctor.
Dear me {looking at Punch in all directions, and
examining his hodg), this is my perUckler friend
Mr. Punch ; poor man ! how pale he looks !
I'll feel his pulse {counts his pulse) — 1, 2, 14,
0, 11. Hi ! Punch, Punch, are yoa dead? are
you dead ? are you dead ?
Punch. {Hitting him with his right hand oper
Vie nose, and knocking him back.) Yes.
Doctor. (Rubbing his nose with his hand,)
I never heard a dead man speak befiore.
Punch, you are not dead !
Punch. Oh, yes I am.
Doctor. How long have you been dead t
Punch. About six weeks.
Doctor. Oh, you're not dead, you're only
poorly; I must fetch you a little reviving
medicine, such as some stick-lickrish and
I balsam, and extract of shillalagh.
Punch. (Rising.) Make haste — (he gives
I the Doctor a wipe on the nose) — make haste
and fetch it. ^Doctor exaunts.
Punch. The Doctor going to get me some
I physic ! I'm very fond of brundy-and- water,
i and rum-punch. I want my physic ; the
Doctor never brought me no physic at alL
I wasn't ill; it was only my fan. (Doctor
reappears with the physic-sticky and he whacks
Punch over the head no harder than he U able,
and cries — "There's physic I physic! physic!
physic ! physic I pills ! balsaam ! stick-
lickerish ! "
Punch. (Rising and rttbbing his head against
the wing.) Yes; it is sdck-lickrish.
(Ah ! it's a pretty play, sir, when it's showed
well — that it is — its delightful to read the
morals ; I am wery fond of reading the morals,
I am.)
Punch. (Taking the stick from the Doctor.)
Now, I'll give you physic ! j)hysic ! physic !
(He strikes at the Doctor, but misses him every
time.) The Doctor don't like his own stuff.
Punch. (Presenting his stick, gun-fashion, at
Doctor's head.) I'll shoot ye — one, two< three.
Doctor, (Closing with Punch.) Come to gaol
along with me.
(He saves his own life by closing with
Punch. He's a desperate character is Punch,
though ho means no harm, ye know.) A
struggle enshoos, and the Doctor calls for
help, Punch being too powerful for him.
Doctor. Come to gaol ! You shall repent for
all your past misdeeds. Help! assistance!
help, in the Queen's name !
(He's acting as a constable, the Doctor
is, though he's no business to do it; but
he's acting in self-defence. He didn't know
Punch, but he'd heard of lib^ transactions,
and when he came to examine him, he found
kt was the man. The Doctor is a very sedate
kind of a person, and wishes to do good to
all classes of the community at large, espe-
inally with his physic, which he gives gratis
lor nothink at all. The physic is called
' Head-e-cologne, or a sure cure for the head-
ache.')
Re-enter Beadis. (Punch and the Doctor Mtiil
struggling together,)
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
67
BeadU. {Closing with them.) Hi, hi! this
it him : behold the head of a traitor ! Come
along ! come to gaol I
AmcA. {A kicking.) I will not go.
Beadle. {Sfwuting.) More help! more help!
more help ! help ! help ! Come along to gaol I
come along! come along! More help! more
kelp!
(Oh ! it's a good lark just here, sir, but
tremendous hard work, for there's so many
figures to work — and all struggling, too, — and
yon have to work them all at once. This is
comic, this is.)
BfodU. More help ! be quick ! be quick !
Re-enter JiM Cnow.
Jim Crow. Come de long I come de long !
come de long ! me nigger, and you beata me.
[Eiaunts all^ Punch still singing ouiy '^I'll
not go."
END OF FinST ACT.
Change of Scene for Second Act.
Scene draws up, and discovers the exterior
of a prison, with Punch peeping through the
bars, and singing a merry song of the merry
bells of £nglimd, all of the olden time.
(That's an olden song, you know; it's old
ancient, and it's a moral, — a moral song, you
know, to show that Punch is repenting, but
pleased, and yet don't care nothink at all about
it, for he's frolicsome, and on the height of his
frolic and amusement to all the juveniles, old
and young, rich and poor. "We must put all
classes together.)
Enter Hangman Jack Ketch^ or Mr. O has all.
That's Jack Ketch's name, you know ; he takes
all, when they gets in his clutches. We
mustn't blame him for he must do his duty,
for the sheri£fs is so close to him.)
IPrejfaraiion commences for the execution of
Punch, Punch is still looking through
the bars of Newgate.
The last scene as I hod was Temple-bar
Scene; it was a prison once, ye know; that's
the old ancient, ye know, but I never let the
others see it, cos it shouldn't become too
pubhc But I think Newgate is better, . in
the new edition, though the prison is sus-
pended, it being rather too terrific for the be-
holder. It was the old ancient style ; the sen-
tence is passed upon him, but by whom not
known ; he's not tried by one person, cos no-
body can't
Jmck Ketch, Now, Mr. Punch, you are going
to be executed by the British and Foreign
IcwB of this and other countries, and you are
to be hung up by the neck until you are dead
Pkmeh, What, am I to die three times ?
Jack. No, DO ; you're only to die once.
Punch. Hoi* is that? you said I was to be
hung up by the neck till I was dead— dead —
dead? Toa can't die three times.
JadL Oh, no ; only once.
Punch. Why, you said dead — dead — dead.
Jack. Yes ; and when you are dead — dead-^
dead — ^you will be quite dead.
Punch. Oh ! I never knowed that before.
Jack. Now, prepare yourself for execution.
Punch. What for?
Jack. For killing your wife, throwing your
poor dear little innocent baby out of the win-
dow, and striking the Beadle unmercifully over
the head with a mop-stick. Come on.
lExaunt Hangman behind Scene j and re-enttTt
leading Punch slowly forth to the foot
of tite gallows. Punch comes most wili-
ingly, having no sense.
Jack. Now, my boy, here is the corfin, here
is the gibbet, and here is tbe pall.
Punch. There's the corfee-shop, there's
giblets, and there's St. Paul's.
Jack. Get out, young foolish! Now then,
place your head in here.
Punch. What, up here ?
Jack. No; a little lower down.
(There's quick business in this, you know ;
this is comic — a little comic business, this is.)
Punch. {Dodging tite noose.) WTiat, here ?
Jack. No, no; in there {showing the noose
again).
Punch. This way ?
Jack, No, a little more this way ; in there.
IPunch falls down^ and pretends he's dead.
Jack. Get up, you're not dead.
Punch. Oh, yes I am.
Jack. But I say, no.
Punch. Please, sir, {bowing to the hangman)
— (Here he's an hypocrite ; he wants to
exempt himself,)— do show me the way, for I
never was hung before, and I don't know the
way. Please, sir, to show me the way, and I'll
feel extremely obliged to you, and return you
my most sincere thanks.
(Now, that's well worded, sir; it's well put
together; that's my beauty, that is; I am
obliged to study my language, and not have any
thing vulgar whatsoever. All in simplicity, so
that the young children may not be taught
anything wrong. There am't nothing to be
learnt from it, because of its simphcity.)
Jack. Very well ; as you're so kind and con-
descending, I will certainly oblige you by
showing you the way. Here, my boy ! now,
place your head in here, like this {hangman
putting his liead in noose) ; this is the right and
the proper way; now, you see the rope is
placed under my chin ; I'll take my head out,
and I Ynh place yours in (that's a rhyme)
and when your head is in the rope, you must
turn round to the ladies and gentlemen, and
say — Good-by ; fare you weU.
(Very slowly then — a stop between each of
the words ; for that's not driving the people out
of the world in quick haste without givinj^ 'em
time for repentance. That's another moral, yer
e. Oh, I like all the morals to it.)
Punch {quickly pulling the rope). Good-
by; fare you well. {Hangs the hangman.)
(What a hypocrite he is again, yer see, for
M
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON J^OOB.
directly he's done it be says : * Now, Fm ft'ee
again for frolic and fan ;* calls Joey, the down,
his old Mend, because they're both ftOl of
tricks and antics : ' Joey, here's a man hung
hisself;'— that's his hypocrisy again, yer see,
for he tries to get exempt after he's done it
hisself.)
Enter Clowv, in qvick hawU, hobhing «p o^otiul
the gaUowM,
Clown. Dear me, I've nm against a milk-
post ! Why, dear Mr. Punch, you've hung a
man ! do tdce him down ! How came you to
doit?
Punch, He got wet through, and I hung
him up to diy.
Clown. Dear me ! why you've hung him up
till he's dried quite dead !
Punch, Poor fellow! then he won't catch
cold with the wet Let's put him in this
snuff-box. {Pointing to coffin.
[Joey takes the figure down and gives it to
Punch to hold, so as the body do not run
away, and then proceeds to remove the
gallows. In doing so he by accident hits
Punch on the nose.
Punch, Mind what you are about! (for
Punch is game, yer know, right through to
the back-bone.)
Clown, Make haste. Punch, here's some-
body a-coming! (They hustle his legs and
feet in ; but they can't get his head in, the un-
dertaker not having made the coffin large
enough.)
Punch, We'd better double him up, place
the pall on, and take the man to the brave, —
not the grave, but the brave : cos he's been a
brave man in his time may be. — Sings the
Bong of * Bobbing around,' while with the
coffin he bobs Joey on the head, and exaunt.
Be-enter Punch.
Punch, That was a jolly lark, wasn't itf
Sings,—
" I'd be a butterfly, bom in u bower,
HaUjig aj^le-dumplinge without any flour."
All this wit must have been bom in me,
or nearly so ; but I got a good lot of it from
Poraini and Pike — and gleanings, you know.
[PmucA disappears and re-enters with bell.
Punch. This is my pianner-sixty : it plays
fifty tunes all at one time.
lOoes to the landlord of the public chouse
painted on the side-scene, or cottage, re-
presented as a tavern or hotel. The
children of the pubUcmn are ail a-bed.
Punch plays up a tune and soHeits for
money,
Lamdiord wakes up in a passion through the
terrible noise ; pokes his head out cf win-
dow and tells him to go away,
(There's a little window, and a httle door to
this side-scene.) If they was to play it all
through, as you're a writing, it *iidopen Dmry-
lane Theatre.
Punch. Go away? Yes, play sway! Oh,
you means, O'er the hills and far away. (He
misunderstands him, wilfully, the hypocrite.)
[Punch keeps on ringing his bell violently.
Publican, in a violent passion, opens the door,
and pushes him away, saying, ** Be off with you /"]
Punch, I will not {Hits him over the head
with the bell.) You're no judge of music.
(Plays away,)
Publican exaunts to fetch cudgel to pay
him out. Punch no sooner sees cudgel than
he exaunts, taking his musical instrument
with him. It's far superior to anything of
the kind vou did ever see, except * seldom.'
You know it's silver, and that's what we says
* solilom ; ' silver, you know, is * seldom,' be-
cause it's seldom you sees it.
Publican comes out of his house with his
cudgel to catch old Punch on the grand hop.
Must have a little comic.
Punch returns again with his bell, while
publican is hiding secretly for to catch him.
Publican pretends, as he stands in a comer,
to be fast asleep, but keeps hif> eyes wide
awake all the while, and says, ' If ho comes
up here, I'll be one upon his tibby.'
Punch comes out from behind the opposite
side, and rings his bell violently. Publican
makes a blow at him with his cudgel, and
misses, saying, ** How dare you intmde upon
my premises with that nasty, noisy bell ?''
Punch, while publican is watching at this
aida-scene, appears over at the other, with a
hartful dodge, and again rings his bell loudly,
and again the publican misses him ; and while
publican is watching at this side-scene, Punch
re-enters, and draws up to him very slowly,
and restes his pianner-sixty on the board, while
he slowly advances to him, and gives him a
whack on the head with his fist. Punch then
disappears, leaving his bell behind, and the
landlord in pursession of his music.)
Landlord {collaring the belt). Smuggings !
pursession is nine points of the Iaw ! So this
bell is mine, {guarding over it with a stick),
Smuggings ! this is mine, and when he comes
up to take this bell away, I shall have him.
Smuggings ! it's mine.
Punch re-enters very slowly behind the
publican as he is watching the beU, and
snatching up the bell, cries out, ' That's mine,'
and exaunts with it
Publican. Dear me ! never mind ; I look
after him ; I shall catch him some di^ cr
other. {Hits his nose up againtt the post as he
is going away.) (That's comic.) Oh, mj nosal
never mind. 111 have him again soma time.
{Excite 'PxmuiOAM,
Clown re-enters with Punch.
Clown, Oh, Punch, how are yon?
Punch. I'm very glad to see you. Oh, Joey,
my fnend, how do you do 7
Clown, Here, Pimch, are you a mind for a
lark? {Peeping in at the cottage window^ fv-
presented as a publie-house,) Are you hungry.
Punch ? would you lika something to eat f
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
09
TmmcK. Yes.
Clown, What wonld you like ?
Pitnch. NotpecnKar.
(Not particTilar, he means, joa know;
that's a slip word.)
Clown. Ill go up into the landlord, and see
if he's got an^nEhing to eat. {Exaunt into cot-
tofe^ and poking his head of the window.)
Here, Prrncb ; here's the landlord fast asleep
m the kitchen cellar ; here's a lot of sausages
hanging up here.
(Joey's a- thieving ; don't you see, he's a roh-
hing the landlord now?)
Would you like some for supper, eh, Punch ?
Punch. Yes, to bo sure.
Clown. Dont make a noise ; youTl wake the
Imdlord.
Punch {whispering ns loud as he can bawl
thwugh the window). Hand 'em out here.
{Punch pulls them out of the unndow.)
Clown. "What are we to fry them in ? HI go
and see if I can find a fningpan.
[Exaunt from window, and re-appcars with
frgingpan, which he Jiands out of unndow
for Punch to cook sausages in, and then
disappears fur a moment; after which he
returns^ and says, with his liead out of
window, * Would you like something /«>/,
Punch r
Punch. Yes, to be sure.
(Punch is up to everything. lie's a help-
ing him to rob the publican. One's as much
in the mud as the other is in the mire.)
Clown {Thrusting red-hot poker out of win-
dow.) Here, lay hold — Here's a lark — Muke
haste — Here's the landlord a coming. {Rubs
Punch with it ever the nose.)
Pfmek. Oh my nose! — that is a hot 'un.
[Takes poker.
Clown, {Re-enierg, and calls in at window.)
Landlord, here's a fellow stole your sausages
and fiyingpon. {Wakes vp Landlord and
exaunis.)
Landlord. {Appears at window.) Here's some-
body been in my house and axually stole my
saasagcs, fryingpon, and red-hot poker!
(Clown exaunts when he has blamed it
tU to Punch. Joey stole 'em, and Punch took
'tm, and the receiver is always worse than the
tliief^ for if they was never no receivers there
wouldn't never be no thieves.)
Landlord, Seizing the sausngos in Punch's
hand, says, How did you get these here ?
Punch. Joey stole 'em, and I took 'em.
Landlord, Then youteboth jolly thieves, and
I most have my property. A scuffle ensues.
Punch hollars out, Joey! Joey I Hero's the
hodlord a stealing the sausages!
(So yon see Punch wants to make the
landlord ft thief so as to exempt himself. He's
a hypocrite there again, you see again — all
through the piece he's the master-piece. Oh
ft most dfiver man is Punch, and such an hypo-
oite.)
(Punch, seizing the fryingpan, which has
ben on the pli^-hoard, knocks it on the
publican's head ; when, there being a false
bottom to it, the head goes through it, and the
sausages gets about tlie Publican's neck, and
Punch pulls at the pan and the sausages with
veheminence, till the landlord is exhausted, and
exaunts with his own property back again ; so
there is no harm done, only merely for the
lark to return to those people what belongs to
'em — What you take away from a person
always give to them again.)
Re-enter Clown.
Clown. Well, Mr. Punch, I shall wish you
a pleasant good morning.
Punch. [Hits him with /iu cudgel."] Good
morning to you, Joey.
Exaunt Joey.
Punch sits down by the side of the poker,
and Scaramouch appears without a head.
Punch looks, and beholds, and he's fright-
ened, and exaunts with the poker.
Scaramouch docs a comic dance, with his
long neck shooting up and down with the
actions of his body, after which he exaunts.
Punch re-enters again with the poker, and
places it beside of him, and takes his cudgel
ill his hand for protection, while he is singing
the National Anthem of '* God save the Queen
and all the Royal Family."
Satan then appears as a dream (and it is
all a dream after all), and dressed up as the
Pvoossittn Bear (leave Politics alone as much as
you can, for Punch belongs to nobody).
Punch has a dreadful struggle with Satan,
who seizes tlie red-hot poker and wants to take
Punch away, for all his past misdeeds, and
frolic and fun, to the bottomless pit.
By struggling with Satan, Punch over-
powers him, and he drops tlie poker, and Punch
kills him with his cudgel, and shouts " Bravo I
Hooray! Satan is dead," he cries (we must
have a good conclusion) : '* we can now all do
as we like!" — (That's the moral, you see.)
*' Good-by, Ladies and Gentlemen : this is the
Avhole of the original performance of Mr.
Punch : and I remain still your most obedient
and most humble servant to command. Good-
by, good-by, good-by. God bless you alL
I return you my most sincere thanks for your
patronage and support, and I hope you'll coma
out handsome witli your gold and alver.*'
There is one Punch in France, but far
different to the English Punch ; they ex-
hibiting their figures in a different way by
performing them with sticks, the same as
Scaramouch is done. They has a performing
Punch sitivated at the Boulevards, in Paris,
where he has a certain piece of ground allotted
for him, with seats attached, being his own f^^e-
hold property; the passers-by, if they wish to
see the performance, they take their seat with
the juveniles, sits down, and he performs to
them for what they think proper to give him.
I never was over in France, but I've heard
talk of him a deal from foreigners who has
60
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
given us inflammation about it, vich they was
so kind to do. They shows the difTerence
between English and French you know.
The Faktoccisi Man.
Every one who has resided for any time in
London must have noticed in the streets a
large roomy show upon wheels, about four
times as capacious as those used for tlie per-
formance of Punch and Judy.
The proprietor of one of these perambulating
exhibitious was a person of some 50 years of
age, with a sprightly half-military manner;
but he is seldom seen by the public, on ac-
count of his haMt of passing the greater part
of the day concealed within his theatre, for
the purpose of managing the figures. When
he paid mo a visit, his peculiar erect bear-
ing struck me as ho entered. He walked with-
out bending his knees, stamped with his heels,
and often rubbed his hands together as if
washing them with an invisiblo soap. Ho wore
his hair with Uio curls arranged in a Brutus,
k la George the Fourth, and his chin was forced
up into the air by a high black stock, as though
ho wished to increase his stature. He wore a
frock coat buttoned at waist, and open on his
expanded chest, so as to show off the entire
length of his shirt-front
I could not help asking him, if he had ever
served in tlie army. He, however, objected to
gratify my curiosity on that point, ^ough it
was impossible from his reply not to infer that
he had been in her m^jest/s service.
There was a mystery about his origin and
parentage, which he desired should remain
undisturbed. His relations were all of them
so respectable, he said, that he did not wish to
disgrace them by any revelations he might
moke ; thus implying that he considered his
present occupation a downfall in life.
" I follow«)d it as my propensity,** he pro-
ceeded, " and though I have run through three
fortunes, I follow it still. I never knew the
value of money, and when I have it in my
pocket I cannot keep it there. I have spent
forty-five pounds in three dajrs."
He seemed to be not a little fond of exhibit-
ing his dolls, and considered himself to be the
only person living who knew anything of the
art. He said orders were sent to him from all
parts of the country to make the figures, and
indeed some of them were so intricate, that he
alone had the secret of their construction.
He hardly seemed to like the Marionettes,
and evidently looked upon them as an inter-
ference with " the real original character" of the
exhibition. The only explanation he could give
of the difference between the Marionettes and
the Fantoccini was, that the one had a French
title, and referred to doUs in modem costume,
whilst the other was an ItaUan word, and ap-
plied to dolls in fancy dresses.
He gave me the following interesting state-
ment : —
"The Fantoccini," he said, "is the proper
title of the exhibition of dancing dolls, Uiough
it has lately been changed to that of the * Ma-
rionettes,' owing to the exhibition under that
name at the Adelaide Gallery.
" That exhibition at the Adelaide Gallery was
very good in its way, but it was nothing to be
compared to tlie exhibition that was once given
at the Argyll Rooms in Regent-street, (that's
the old place that was bunied down ) . It was
called * Le petit Thedtre Matthieu^' and in my
opinion it was the best one that ever come
into London, because they was well manaj;ed.
They did little pieces — heavy and light. They
did Shakespeare's tragedies and farces, and
singing as well ; indeed, it was the real stage,
only with dolls for actors and parties to speak
for 'em and work their arms and legs behind
the scenes. I've known one of these parties
take three parts — look at that for clover work
— first he did an old man, then an old woman,
and afterwards the young man. I assisted at
tliat performance, and I should say it was full
twenty years ago, to the best of my recollec-
tion. After the Marionettes removed to the
Western Institution, Leicester-square, I as-
sisted at ihem also. It was a passable ex-
hibition, but nothing out of the way. The
figiures were only modelled, not carved, as they
ought to be. I was only engaged to exhibit
one figure, a sailor of my own making. It
was a capital one, and stood as high as a table.
They wanted it for the piece called the ' Ma-
nager in Distress,' where one of the performers
is a sailor. Mine would dance a hornpipe,
and whip its hat off in a minute ; when I had
finished performing it, I took gooil care to
whip it into a bag, so that tliey should not see
how I arranged the strings, for they was very
backwards in their knowledge. When we
worked the figiures it was very diihcult, be-
cause you had to be up so high — like on the
top of the ceiling, and to keep looking down aU
the time to manage the strings. There was a
platform arranged, with a place to rest against.
" The first to introduce the Fantoccini into
London — that is, into London streets, mind
you, going about — was Gray, a Scotchman.
He was a very clever fellow, — very good,
and there was nothing but what was good
that belonged to it — scenery, dresses, theatre
and all. He had a frame then, no longer than
tlie Punch frame now, only he had a labouring
man to cany it for him, and he took with him
a box no larger than a haberdasher's box, which
contained the figures, for they were not more
than nine inches high. Now my figures are
two feet high, though they don't look it; but
my theatre is ten feet high by six foot wide,
and the opening is four feet high. This Gray
was engaged at all the tlieatros, to exhibit hijj
figures at the masquerades. Nothing went
down but Mr. Gray, and he put poor Pimch.
up altogether. When he performed at the
theatres, he used to do it as a wind-up to the
entertainment, after the dancing was over, and
GUY FAWKES.
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
61
thrjwoiild elMT the stage on purpose for him,
ftod then let down a scene wiUi an opening in
it, the size of his theatre. On these occasions
his fi^rnres were longer, about two feet, and
very perfect. There was juggling, and slack
and tight rope-dandng, and Punches, and
everything, and the performance was ne^er
]«9s than one hour, and then it was done a8
quick as lightning, every morning, and no feat
lunger than two or three minutes. It didn't
do to have silly persons there.
^This Gray performed at Yauxhall when
Bifth, the lottery-man in Comhill, had it, and
he vent down wonderful. He also performed
before George the Fourth. I've heard sny that
he j^t ten pounds a- week when he performed
at Vauxhall, for they snatched him out of the
streets, and wouldn't let him play there. It's
impossible to say what ho made in the streets,
for he was a Scotchman and uncommon close.
If be took a hatfull, he'd say, * I've only got a
few;' but he did so well he could sport his
diamond rings on his fingers, — first rate —
splendid.
•* Gray was the first to exhibit gratis in the
Ktreeta of London, but he was not the first to
work fantoccini figures. They had always
been exhibited at theatres before that, Old
Ponini knowed nothing about them <~ it was
out of his business all to^^ether, for he was
Punch and nothing more. Gray killed Porsini
and his Punch ; regular shut him up. A man
of the name of Flocton from Birmingham was,
to the best of my knowledge, the first that ever
had a fantocdni exhibition in England; but
he was ooJEy for theatres.
" At this tone I had been playing in the
orcfaestrmwiCli some travelling comedians, and
Mr. SaAWOod, the master, used among other
things to exhibit the dancing figures. He
had a pnMeenium fitted up so that he could
open a twenty-foot theatre, almost large
enough for living persons. He had the splen-
didest figures ever introduced into this cotmtry.
He was sa artist as well, splendid scene and
transparent painter ; indeed, he's worked for
some of the first noblemen in Cheltenham,
doing up their drawing-rooms. His figures
worked their eyes and mouths by mechanism ;
according to what they had to say, they looked
and moved their eyes and mouths according ;
and females, if they was singing, heaved their
I'Osoms like Christians, the same as life. He
had a Turk who did the tightrope without
anybody being seen. He always performed
diSnvnt pieces, and had a regular wardrobe
vith him— beautiful dresses — and he'd diess
'em up to their parts, and then paint their
liees up with distemper, which daiw in .an
hour. Somebody came and told me that Gray
wu in London, performing in the streets, and
that's what bzought me out. I had helped
Mr. Seawood to manage the figures, and I
knew something about them. They told me
Gray had a frame, and I said, *Well, it's a
Int of ganius, and is a fortune.* The only
figures they told me he had — and it was true
— was a sailor, and a Turk, and a clown, and
what we calls a Polander, that's a man that
tosses the pole. I left Seawood directly, and
I went to my father and got some money, and
began instantly making my f^ame and figures.
Mine was about sixteen inches high, and I had
five of 'em. I began very strong. My fifth
figure was a juggler. I was the second that
ever came out in the streets of London. It
was at the time that George the Fourth went
to Scotland, and Gray went after him to try
his luck, following the royal family. As the
king went out of London I came in. I first
of cdl put up at Peckham, just to lay to a bit and
look about me. I'll tell you the reason. I
h£td no one to play, and I couldn't manage the
figures and do the music as weU, consequently
I had to seek after some one to do the pan-
dean pipes. I didn't like to make my first
appearance in London without music. At
last I met a party that used to play the pipes
at Vauxhall. I met him one day, and ho
says, * What are you up to now ? ' so I told him
I had the fantoccini figures. He was a beau-
tiful pipe player, and I've never heard any one
like him before or since. He wouldn't believe
I had the figures, they was such a novelty. I
told him where I was staying, and he and his
partner came over to sec me, and I performed
the figures, and then we went on .shares. Ho
had worked for Gray, and he knew all his
houses where he used to perform, and I knew
nothing about these things. "When Gray came
back he found me performing before one of
his houses in Harley-strect, where he always
had five shiliings.
"They was a tremendous success — won-
derful. If we had a call at a house our
general price was two-and-sixpcnce, and the
performance was, for a good one, twenty
minutes. Then there was the crowd for the
collection, but they was principally halfpence,
and we didn't cai» about them much, though
we have taken four shillings. We never
pitched only to hottses, only stopping when
we had an order, and we hadn't occasion to
walk far, for as soon as the tune was heard,
up would come the servants to tell us to
come. Tve had three at me at once. I've
known myself to be in Devonshire-place, when
I was poforming there, to be there for three
hours and upwards, going from house to house.
I eotdd tell you how much we took a-day. It
was, after taking expenses, from four to five
pounds a-day. Besides, there was a labourer
to whom we paid a guinea a- week to carry a
fhutne, and he had his keep into the bargain.
Where Punch took a shilling we've taken a
poimd.
"I recollect going down with the show to
Brighton, and they actually announced our
arrival in the papers, saying, that among other
public amusements tliey had the Fantoccini
figures ftom London. That's a fact That
was in the paper. We did well in Brighton.
68
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
We'hftve, I can assure jon, taken eighteen
shillings and sixpence in half an hour, comer-
pitching, as we call it ; that is, at the comer of
a street where there is a lotof people passing.
We had such success, that the magistrates
sent the head-constable round with us, to clear
away the mob. If we performed before any
gentleman's place, there was this constable to
keep the place clear. A nasty busy fellow he
was, too. All the time wo was at Brighton we
made twenty pounds a-week clear, for we then
took only shillings and sixpences, and there
was no fourpenny pieces or threepenny bits in
them times. We had gentlemen come up
many a time and offer to buy the whole con-
cern, clear. What an idea, wasn't it ? But we
didn't want to sell it, they couldn't have given
us our price.
" The crowd was always a great annoyance
to us. They'd follow us for miles, and the
moment we pitched up they'd come and gather
about, and almost choke us. What was their
ha'pence to us when we was taking our half,
crowns ? Actually, in London, we walked three
and four miles to get rid of the mob ; but, bless
you ! we couldn't get rid of them, for they was
like flies after honey.
" We used to do a great business ¥rith even-
ing parties. At Christmas we have had to go
three and four times in the same evening to
different parties. We never had less than a
guinea, and I have had as much as five pounds,
but the usual price was two pounds ten ahil-
lings, and all refreshments found you. I had
the honour of performing before the Queen
when she was Princess Victoria. It was at
Gloucester-house, Park-lane, and we was en-
gaged by the royal household. A nice berth
I had of it, for it was in May, and they put us
on the landing of the drawing-room, where
the folding-doors opened, and there was some
place close by where hot air was admitted
to warm the apartments ; and what with the
heat of the weather and this 'ere ventilation,
with the heat coming up the grating-places,
and my anxiety performing before a princess,
I was near baked, and the perspiration quite
run off me ; for I was packed up above, stand-
ing up and hidden, to manage the figures.
There was the maids of honour coming down
the stairs like so many nuns, dressed all in
white, and the princess was standing on a
sofa, with the Duke of Kent behind her. She
was apparently very much amused, like others
who had seen (hem. I can't recollect what we
was paid, but it was very handsome and so
forth.
'^I've also performed before the Baroness
Rothschilds, next the Duke of Wellington's,
and likewise the Baron himself, in Grosvenor-
place, and Sir Watkyn W. Wynne, and half
the nobility in England. We've been in the
very first of drawing-rooms.
"• I shall never forget being 'at Sir Watkyn
Wynne's, for we was very handsomely treated,
and had the best of eveiything. It was in
St James's-square, and the best of maasioiis.
It was a juvenile-party ni^t, and there was a
juggler, and a Punch and Judy, and our Fan-
toccinL One of the footmen comes up, and
says he, * Would any of you men like a jelly?'
I told him I didn't care for none, but the Punch-
and-Judy man says — < My missus is very par.
tial to them.' So the footman asks — 'How
will you carry it home?' I suggested he
should put it in his hat, and the foolish fellow^
half silly with horns of ale, actually did, and
wrapped it up in his pocket-handkerchiet
There was a large tumbler full. By and by
he cries — *Lord, how I sweat!' and there
was the stuff nmning down his hair like so
much size. We did laugh, I can assure you.
'* Fantoccini has fallen off now. It's quite
different to what it was. I don't think the
people's tired of it, but it ain't such a noveltj.
I could stop up a whole street if I liked, so
that nothing could get along, and that showt
the people ain't tir^ of it. I think it's the
people that gave the half-crowns are tired of
It, but those with the ha'pence are as fond of
it as ever. As times go, the performance is
worth two pounds a-week to me; and if it
wasn't, I couldn't afford to stop with it, forPm
very clever on the violin, and I could earn
more than thirty shillings a-week playing in
bands. We still attend evening parties, only
it isn't to princesses, but gentry. We depend
more upon evening parties. It isn't street
work, only if we didn't go round they'd think
I was dead. We go to more than thirty par-
ties a-year. We always play according to
price, whether it's fifteen shillings, or teu
shillings, or a guinea. We dont get many
five-guinea orders now. The last one was six
months ago, to go twenty-eight miles into Kent,
to a gentleman's house. When we go to parties,
we take with us a handsome, portable, fold-up
frame. The front is beautifiil, and by a first-
rate artist. The gentleman who done it is at
the head of the carriage department at a rail-
way, and there's the royal arms all in gold,
and it stands above ten feet high, and has
wings and all, so that the music and every-
thing is invisible. It shuts up like a port-
folio. The figures are first-rate ones, and
eveiy one dressed according to the country,
whatever it may be, she is supposed to repre-
sent They are in the best of material, with
satin and lace, and all that's good.
" When we perform in the streets, we gene-
rally go through this programme. We begins
with a female hornpipe dancer ; then there is
a set of quadrilles by some marionette figun^s,
four females and no gentleman. If we did
the men we should want assistance, for four
is as much as I can hold at once. It would
require two men, and the street won't pay for
it After this we introduces a representation
of Mr. Grimaldi the clo^n, who does tumbling
and posturing, and a comic dance, ond so
forth, such as trying to catch a buLtorfly.
Then comes the enchanted Turk. He cornea
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
03
00 in the costume of a Turk, and he throws
off his light and left arm, and then his legs,
and they each change into different figures,
the arms and legs into two boys and girls, a
dergyman the head, and an old lady the body.
That figure was my own invention, and I could
if Ihke uun him into a dozen ; indeed, Pve got
one at home, which turns into a par»on in the
pulpit, and a derk tmder him, and a lot of
wit charity children, with a form to sit down
mon. They are all carved figures, every one
or them, and my own make. The next per-
fi)nBance is the old lady, and her arms drop
off and torn into two figures, and the body
becomos a complete bidloon and car in a
minute, and not a flat thing, but round — and
the figures get into the car and up they go.
Then there's the tight-rope dancer, and next
the Indian juggler — Ramo Samee, a rcpresen-
tation — who chucks the balls about under his
iMt and under his arms, and catches them on
the back of his head, the same as Ramo Samee
did. Then there's the sailor's hornpipe —
kalian Scaramouch (he's the old style). This
one has a long neck, and it shoots up to the
tup of the theatre. This is the original trick,
and a very good one. Then comes the Po-
lander, who balances a pole and two chairs,
and stands on his head and jumps over his
pole ; he dresses like a Spaniard, and in the
dd style. It takes a quarter of an hour to do
that figure well, and make him do all his
tricks. Then comes the Skeletons. They're
regular first class, of course. This one also
was my invention, and I was the first to make
them, and I'm the only one that can make
them. They are made of a particular kind of
wood. I'm a first-rate carver, and can make
my three guineas any day for a skull ; indeed,
I've Bold many to dentists to put in their win-
dow. It's very difficult to carve this figure,
and takes a deal of time. It takes full two
months to make these skeletons. I've been
offered ten pounds ten shillings for a pair, if
Id make 'em correct according to the human
frame. Those I make for e^ibiting in the
streets, I charge two pounds each for. They're
good, and all the joints is correct, and you may
put 'em into what attitudes you like, and they
walk like a human being. These figures in
my show come up through a trap-door, and
perform attitudes, and shiver and lie down,
and do imitations of the pictures. It's a
tragic sort of concern, and many ladies won't
have 'em at evening parties, because it frightens
the children. Then there's Judy Callaghan,
and that 'livens up after the skeletons. Then
SIX figures jump out of her pockets, and she
knocks them about. It's a sort of comic busi-
Dcas. Then the next is a countryman who
ean*t get hia donkey to go, and it kicks at
him and throws him off, and all manner of
comic andca, after Billy Button's style. Then
1 do the skeleton that falls to pieces, and then
becomes whole again. Then there's another
out oithe-way oomic figure that falls to pieces
similar to the skeleton. He catches holcT of
his head and chucks it from one hand to the
other. We call him the Nondescript. We
wind up with a scene in Tom and Jerry.
The curtain winds up, and there's a watchman
prowling the streets, and some of those lark-
ing gentlemen comes on and pitch into him.
He looks round and he can't see anybody.
Presently another comes in and gives him
another knock, and then there's a scuffle, and
off they go over the watch-box, and down
comes the scene. That makes the juveniles
laugh, and finishes up the whole performance
merry like.
" I've forgot one figure now. Iknow'd there
was another, and that's the Scotchman who
dances the Highland fling. He's before the
watchman. He's in the regular national cos-
tume, everything correct, and everything, and
the music plays according to the performance.
It's a beautiful figure when well handled, and
the dresses cost something, I can tell you ; all •
the joints are counter -simk — them figures
that shows above the knee. There's no joints
to be seen, all works hidden like, something
like Madame Yestris in Don Juan. All my
figures have got shoes and stockings on. They
have, indeed. If it wasn't my work, they'd cost
a deal of money. One of them is more ex-
pensive than all those in Punch and Judy put
together. Talk of Punch knocking the Fan-
toccini down I Mine's all show ; Punch is
nothing, and cheap as dirt.
" I've also forgot the flower-girl that comes
in and dances 'with a garland. That's a very
pretty figure in a fairy's dress, in a nice white
skirt with naked carved arms, nice modelled,
and the legs just the same ; and the trunks
come above the knee, the same as them ballet
girls. She shows all the opera attitudes.
" The performance, to go through the whole
of it, takes an hour and a half; and then you
mustn't stand looking at it, but as soon as cue
thing goes off the music changes and another
comes on. That ain't one third, nor a quarter
of what I can do.
" When Pm performing I'm standing behind,
looking down upon the stage. All the figures
is hanging round on hooks, with all their
strings ready for use. It makes your arms
ache to work them, and especially across the
loins. All the strength you have you must do,
and chuck it out too ; for those four figures
which I uses at evening parties, which dance
the polka, weighs six poimds, and that's to be
kept dangling for twenty minutes together.
They are two feet high, and their skirts take
three quarters of a yard, and are covered with
spangles, which gives 'em great weight.
" There are only two of us going about now
with Fantoccini shows. Several have tried it,
but they had to knock under very soon. They
soon lost their money and time. In the first
place, they must be musicians to make the
figures keep time in the dances ; and, again,
they most be carvers, for it won't pay to put
04
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
the fignres out to be done. I had ten pounds
the other day onlj to caxre six figures, and the
wood only come to three shinings; that'll give
you some idea of what the carving costs.
''Formerly I used to make ue round of
the watering-places, hut Tve got quite enough
to do in London now, and traTelling's very
expensive, for the eating and drinking is so
veiy expensive. Now, at Ramsgate I've had
to pa^ half~a-guinea for a bed, and that to a
man m my position is more than I like. I
always pays the man who goes along with me
to play the music, because I don't go out every
day, only when it suits me. He gets as good
as lus twenty-three shillings a-week, according
to how business is, and Uiat's on an average
as good as four shillings a-day. If I'm very
lucky I makes it better for him, for a man
can't be expected to go and blow his life away
into pandean pipes unless he's well paid for
it."
Gut Fawkeses.
Until within the last ten or twelve years, the
exhibition of guyR in the public thorough-
fares every 5th of November, was a privilege
enjoyed exclusively by boys of from 10 to 15
years of age, and the money arising there*
from was supposed to be invested at night in
a small pyrotechnic display of squibs, crackers,
and Catherine- wheels.
At schoobi, and at many young gentlemen's
houses, for at least a week before the 5th
arrived, the bonfires were prepared and guys
built up.
At night one might see rockets ascending
in the air from many of the suburbs of London,
and the little back-gardens in such places as
the Hampstead-road and Kennington, and,
ailer dusk, suddenly illuminated with the
blaze of the tar-barrel, and one might hear in
the streets even banging of crackers mingled
with the laughter and shouts of boys ex^oying
the sport
In those days the street guys were of a
ver>' humble character, the grandest of them
generally consisting of old clothes stuff'ed up
with straw, and carried in state upon a
kitchen-chair. The arrival of the guy before
a window was announced by a juvenile chorus
of ** Please to remember the 5th of November."
So diminutive, too, were some of these guys,
that I have even seen doUs carried about as
the representatives of the late Mr. Fawkes.
In fact, none of these effigies were hardly ever
made of larger proportions than Tom Thumb,
or than would admit of being carried through
the garden-gates of any suburban villa.
Of late years, however, the character of Guy
Fawkes-day has entirely changed. It seems
now to partake rather of the nature of a
London May-day. The figures have grown
to be of gigantic stature, and whilst downs,
musicians, and dancers have got to accompany
them in their travels through the streets, the
traitor Fawkes seems to have been almoat'
laid aside, and the festive occasion taken
advantage offer the expresaion of any i>olitical
feeling, the guy being made to represent any
celebrity of the day who has for the moment
offended against Uie opinions of the people.
The kitchen-chair has been changed to the
costermongers' donkey-truck, or even Tans
drawn by pairs of horses. Tlie bonlires and
fireworks are seldom indulged in ; the money
given to the exhibitors b^ng shared among-
the projectors at night, the same as if th«
day's work had been occupied with acrobttting
or nigger singing.
The first guy of any celebrity that made its
appearance in the London streets was about
the year 1844, when an enormous figure was
paraded about on horseback. This had a
tall extinguisher-hat, with a broad red brim,
and a pointed vandyked colloi*, that hung
down over a smock frock, which was stuffed
out with straw to the dimensions of a water-
butt. The figure was attended by a body of
some half-dozen costermongers, mounting
many coloured cockades, and armed with for-
midable bludgeons. The novelty of the ex-
hibition ensured its success, and the " coppers*
poured in in such quantities that ou the
following year gigantic guys were to be found
in every quarter of the metropolis.
But the gigantic movement did not attain
its zenith till the **No Popery" cry was raised,
upon the diri^ion of England into pajial
bishoprics. Then it was no longer Fawkes
but Cardinal Wiseman and the Pope of Rome
who were paraded as guys through the London
thoroughfares.
The figures were built up of enormous pro-
portions, the red hat of the cardinal having a
brim as large as a loo-table, and his scarlet
cape being as long as a tent. Guy Fawkes
seated upon a barrel marked ** Gunpowder * |
usually accompaniod His Holiness and the I
Cardinal, but his diminutive size showed that i
Guy now played but a secondary part in the !
exhibition, tdthough the lantern and the
matches were tied as usual to his radishy and
gouty fingers. According to the newspapers,
one of these shows was paraded on the Royal
Exchange, the merchants approving of the
exhibition to such an extent that sixpences,
shillings, and half-crowns were showered in
to the hats of the lucky costers who had made
the speculation. So excited was the publie
mind, that at night, after business was over,
processions were formed by tradespeo2)le and
respectable mechanics, who, with bands of
music playing, and banners flying, on which
were inscribed anti -papal mottoes and devices,
marched through the streets wtth flaming
torches, and after parading their monster
Popes and Cardinals until about nine o'clock at
night, eventually ac^oumed to some open
space — like Peckhara-rye or Blackheath —
where the guy was burned amid the most
boisterous applauses.
Cardinal Wiseman and the Pope reappeared
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
Gd
Ibrserend years in snccessioD, till at length
the Banian war breaking oat, the Guy-Fawkes
WBStroctcws had a fresh model to work upon.
Ike Emperor of Rnssia accordingly **came
ovt** in the streets, in all forms and shapes ;
sonetimes as the Teritable Nicholas, in jack-
boots and leather breeches, with his luimis.
likable moustache; and often as Old Nick,
vith a pab* of horns and a lengthy appendage
ia the fozm of a toil, with an arrow-headed
IvmiDation ; and not unfrequently he was re-
fiwiiintod as a huge bear cronching beneath
•ome rode symbol of the English and French
dfiaoee.
On the 9th of November (1856) the gnys
vcre more c^ a political than a religious cha-
neter. The unfortunate Pope of Rome had
a some instances been changed for Bombc^
IhoDgh the Czar, His Holiness, and his
British leprescntative the Cardinal, were not
alloaelher neglected. The wont of any poli-
ticaf agitation was the caase why the guys
vcn ofso uninteresting a character.
I most not, however, forget to mention a
"■»g"^— ■ innovation that was thon made in the
racognised fashion of guy building — one of
the groups of figures exhibited being (strange
to say) of a compUmentary nature. It con-
sisted of Miss Nightingale, standing between
ML Hnglicih Grenadier and a French foot-
w^er, while at her feet lay the guy between
two barrels marked " Gunpowder,'* and so equi-
vocally attiK-d that he might be taken for
«ther the Emperor of Russia or the Pope of
Bonke.
At BiUing^ate, a guy was promenaded
round the mariiet as cnrly as five o'clock in tho
morning, by a party of charity-boys, who ap-
peered by their looks to have been sitting up
all night. It is well known to the boys in the
aeighbourhood of the great fish-market, that
die guy which is first in the field reaps the
nchest harvest of halfpence from the salesmen ;
and iodeed, till within the last three or four
years, one fish-fjictor was in the habit of giving
the bearers of the first effigy he saw a half-crown
piece. Hence there were usually two or
three diffarent guy luirties in attendance soon
lAer four o'clock, awaiting his coming into the
market.
For manufkctnring a cheap guy, sucli as
that seen at Billingsgate, a pair of old trousers
ad Wellington boots f(>rm the most expensive
ttm. The shoulders of the guys are gene-
laDv decorated with a paper cape, adorned
«il£ diflerent coloured rosettes and gilt stars.
A fbozpenny mask makes the face, and a
proper cocked hat, embellished in the same
tf^ie as the oape, surrounds the rag. head.
The general characteristics of all gu>'8 con.
■Bts in a limpness and roundness of limb,
^ieh give the form a puddingy appearance.
An the extremities have a kind of paralytic
feebleness, so that the head leans on one
tide li]^ that of a dead bird, and the feet have
a umiataral propensity for placing themselves
in every position but the right one ; sometimes
turning Oieir toes in, as if their legs hod been
put on the wrong way, or keeping their toes
turned out, as if they had been " struck so *
while taking their first dancing-lesson. Their
fingers radiate like a bunch of carrots, and the
arms are as shapeless and bowed as the
monster sausage in a cook-shop window.
The face is always composed of a mask painted
in the state of the most florid hcsdth, and
singularly disagreeing with the frightf^ de-
bility of the body. Through the holes for the
eyes bits of rag and straw generally protrude,
as though birds had built in the sockets. A
pipe is mostly forced into the mouth, where it
remains with the bowl downwards ; and in the
hands it is customary to tie a lantern and
matches. Whilst the guy is carried along, you
can hear the straw in his interior rustUng and
crackling, like moving a workhouse mattrass.
As a general rule, it may be added, that guys
have a lielpless, dnmken look.
Wlien, however, the monster Guy Fawkeses
came into fashion, considerably greater expense
was gone to in ** getting up" the figures. Then
the feet were alwaj-s fastened in their proper
position, and although the airangement of the
hands was never perfectly mastered, yet the
fingers were brought a little more closely
togetlier, and approached the digital dexterity
of the dummies at the cheap clothes marts.
For corrjing the guys about, chairs, wheel-
barrows, trucks, carts, and vans are employed.
Chairs and wheelbarrows are patronised by the
juvenile population, but the other vehicles be-
long to the gigantic speculations.
(.)n the Surrey side a guy was exhibited in
1850 whose stmw body was encased in a coacli-
man's old great coat, covered with different
coloiu*s, as various as tlic waistcoat patterns on
a tailor's show-book. He was wheeled about
on a truck by three or four yoimg men, ^hose
hoarse voices, when shouting ** Please to re-
member the Guy," showed tlieir regular occu-
pation to be street-selling, for they had the
same husky sound as the " Eight a-groat fVesh
lierrens," in the Saturday night stroet-
marketa.
In the ncighb()urhoo<l of Walworth, men
dressed up as guys were dragged about on
trucks. One of them was seated upon a
barrel marked " Gunpowder," his face being
painted green, and ornamented with on im-
mense false nose of a bright scarlet colour. I
could not understand what this guy was meant
to represent, fr »r he wore a sugarloaf hat with
an ostrich feather in it, and had on a soldier's
red coat, decorated with paper rosettes as big
OS cabbages. His legs, too, were covered with
his own corduroy trowsers, but adorned with
paper streamers and bows. In front of him
marched a couple of men carrying broomsticks,
and musicians playing upr >n a tambourine and
a penny tin whistle.
The most remarkable of the stuffed figures
of 1856 was oue dressed ui a sheet, intended
96
LOKDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
to represent the Bev. ^Ir. Spurgeon in a sur-
plice ! It was carried alxmt on a wooden stage
by boys, and took very well with the mob, lor
no sooner did the lads cr}- out,—
"Remember, remember.
The fifth of November,
Old Spurgeou'a treason aod plot I "
than a shout of laughter burst from the crowd,
and Uie halfpence began to pour in. '^JTithout
this alteration in the November rhyme, nobody
would have been able to have traced the
slightest resemblance between the guy and the
reverend gentleman whose effigy it was stated
to be.
Further, it should be added, that the guy
exhibitors have of late introduced a new sys-
tem, of composing special rhymes for the occa-
sion, which are delivered after the well-known
** Remember, remember.'' Those with the
figures of tlie Pope, for instance, sing, —
" A penn'orth of chcoeo to food the pope,
A twopenny loiif to choke him,
A pint of boer to wash it down.
And a good loi^ge fagot to smoke bim ! **
I heard a parly of costonnongera, who had
the image of His Imperial Majesty the Em-
peror of all the Uussias wabbling on their
truck, sing in chorus this homo-manufactured
verse, —
*' Poke an ingun in his eye —
A squib shove up his nose, sirs ;
Then roast him till he's done quite brown,
And Nick to old Nick goes, sirs."
With the larger guys little is usually sold or
done beyond exhibiting them. In the crowded
thoroughfares, the proprietoi-^ mostly occupy
themselves only with collecting the money, and
never let the procession stop for a moment.
On coming to the squares, however, a different
course is pursued, for then they stop before
every window where a head is visible and sing
the usual " Remember, remember," winding
up with a vociferous hurrah I as they holdout
their hats for the halfpence.
At the West-end, one of the largest guys of
1856 was drawn by a horse in a cart. This
could not have been less than fourteen feet
high. Its face, whicli was as big as a shield,
was so flat and good-humoured in expres-
sion that I at once recognised it as a panto-
mime mask, or one ivsed to hang outside some
masquerade costiunier's shop door. The coat
was of the Charles the Second's cut, and com-
posed of a lightish coloured paper, ornamented
with a profusion of Dutch metaL There was
a sash across the right shoulder, and the legs
were almost as long as the funnel to a penny
steamer, and ended in brown paper cavalier
boots. As the costermongers led it along, it
shook like a load of straw. If it had not been
for the bull's-eye lantern and lath matches,
nobody would have recognised in the dandy
figure the effigy of the wi-etched Fawkes.
By far the handsomest turn-out of the daj,
at this time, was a group of three figuxeii^
which promenaded Whitechapel and Beum«U
green. They stood erect in a van drawn Ijj,
a bhnd horse, and accompanied by a '^baad^-
of one performer on the drum and pandaaa
pipes. Four clowns in f^ costume mad*
faces while they jumped about among tba
spectators, and collected donations. AU ths
guys were about ten feet high. The oentro.
one, intended for Fawkes himself, was attired
in a flowing cloak of crimson glazed calico^ and
his black hat was a broad-brimmed sugar-
loaf, the pointed crown of which was like a
model of Langhom -place church steeple, and il
had a profusion of black hair streaming aboo^
the face. The figures on either side of this
were intended for Lords Suffolk and Monteaj^
in the act of arresting the traitor, and aooord*
ingly appeared to be gently tapping Mr.
Fawkes on either shoulder. The bodies of
their lordships were encased in gold sods*
ai-mour, and their legs in silver ditto, whilst
their heads were covered with three-cornered
cocked hats, surmounted by white feathers.
In the front of the van were two white bonnersy
with tlie following inscriptions in letters of
gold :—
" Apprehension op Guy Fawkes ok thr flm
OF NOTEMBEB, IN THE YEAB IdOd.**
And,—
" The Discovery of the Gunpowdeb Piot
ON the 5th of November, lOOd.**
At the back of the van flaunted two flags of sE
nations. In addition to the four clowns, thers
were several other attendants ; one in partioulsr
had the appearance of half a man and half a
beast, his body being clad in a green frock-coat|
whilst his legs and feet were shaggy, and made
to imitate a bear's.
The most remarkable part of this exhibition
was the expression upon the countenances of
the figiures. They were ordinary masks, and
consequently greatly out of proportion for the
height of the figures. There was a stzonff
family resemblance between the traitor and
his arresters; neither did Fawkes's coun-
tenance exhibit any look of rage, astonishment,
or disappointment at finding his designs fhis-
trated. Nor did their lordships appear to be
angn-, disgusted, or thunderstruck at the con-
spirator's bold attempt.
In the neighbourhood of Bond-street the
guys partook of a political character, as if to
please the various Members of Parliament who
might be strolling to their Clubs. In oaie
barrow was the effigy of the Emperor of the
Fi'ench, holding in his hands, instead of the
lantern and matches, a copy of the 2%ms
newspaper, torn in hcdf. I was informed that
another figure I saw was intended to represent
the form of Bomba.
In the neighbourhood of Lambeth Palaee
the gn^ys were of an ecclesiastical kind, and
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
07
as it was imagined would be likely to
' the Archbishop of Canterbtuy into
' at least a half-crown. One of the»e was
I bj two donkeys, and accompanied by
I and pipes. It represented Cardinal
mm in Uie company of four members of
H0I7 Inquisition." The Cardinal wab
d in the nsoal scarlet costome, while the
bUhv were robed in black with green
oiver their faces. In front of the cart
bottle, labelled ** Holy Water," which
ootinnally turned round, so that the
» might discover that on the other side
tinted " YThUky.-
* practice of burning guys, and lighting
es. and letting oft fireworks, is now
ally discontinued, and particularly as
b the public exhibitions at Blackheath
'eekham Kye. The greatest display of
cin* we are inclined to believe, took
in the public streets of the metropolis,
I to twelve o'clock at night, one might oc-
lally hear reports of penny cannons, and
riiy explosions of crackers.
Guy Fawkes (Man).
in the crock'iy line, going about with a
t and changing jugs, and glass, and
i» for clothes and that; but for the last
years I have, every Fifth of Novt»mlK?r,
out with a guy. It's a good job for tlu^
for what little we lay out on the guy we
nusa, and the money comes in all of
np at the last. While it lasts there's
;▼ to bo made by it. I used always to
the gfiqr about for two days ; but tliis lost
I foc« him about for three.
wwM nineteen year old when I first went
itb a gruy. It was seeing others about
'An, and being out of work at the time,
hBving nothing to sell, I and another
we knocked up one between us, and we
I it go on pretty well, so we kept on at
[he first one I took out was a very first-
Imt we'd got it up as well as we could
iw people*s attention. I said, * It ain't no
domg as the others do, wc must have
topper.' It represented Guy Fawkes in
velvet. It was about nine feet high,
le was standing upright, with matches in
land and lantern in the other. I show'd
me round Clerkeuwell and Islington. It
Iw first big 'un as was ever brought out.
s had been paper ones as big, but ne'er
dressed up in the style mine was. 1 had
okey and cart, and we placed it against
croes-rails and some bits of wood to
him steady. He stood firm because he
two poles up his legs, and being lashed
1 the boily holding him firm to the posts
c a rock. We done better the first time
ent out than we do lately. The guy must
eost a sovereign. He had a trunk-hose
white legs, which we made out of a pair
bite drawers, for fleshings and yeUow
boots, which I bought in Petticoatlcne. We
took over 3/. with him, whicli was pretty fhir,
and just put us on again, for November is a
bad time for most street trades, and getting
a few shillings all at once mokes it all right
till Christmas.
** A pal of mine, of the name of Smith, was
the first as ever brought out a big one. His
wasn't a regular dressed-up one, but only with
a paper apron to hang down the front and
bows, and such -like. He put it on a chair,
and had four boys to carry it on their shoul-
ders. He was the first, too, as introduced
clowns to dance about. I see him do well,
and that's why I took mine in hand.
** The year* they was chalking * No Popery*
all about the walls I had one, dressed up in
a long black garment, with a red cross on his
bosom. I'm sure I don't know what it meant,
but they told mo it would be popular. I had
only one figure, witli nine bows, and that
tidiwated all about him. As we went along
everybody shouted out *No Popery 1' Every-
body did. He had a large brimmed hat with
a low crown in, and a wax mask. I always
had wax ones. I've got one at home now
I've had for five year. It cost two-and-six-
pence. It's a very good-looking face but rathor
sly, with a great horse-hair beard. Most of
the boys make their'n de>ils, and as ugly as
they con, but that wouldn't do for Christians
like as I represent mine to be.
" One year I hod Nicholas and his adviser.
That was tho Emperor of Russia in big top-
boots and white breeches, and a green coat
on. I gave him a good bit of mustachios —
a little extra. He had a Russian helmet hat
on, with a pair of eagles on the top. It was
one I bought. I bought it cheap, for I only
gave a shilling for it. I was oflered five or
six for it aftem-ards, but I found it answer my
purpose to keep. I had it dressed up this
year. Tlie other figure was the devil. I made
him of green tinsel papur cut out like scale
armour, and pasted on to his legs to make it
stick tight He had a devil's mask on, and
I made him a pair of horns out of his head.
Over them was a banner. I was told what to
do to make the banner, for I hod the letters
writ out first, and then I cut 'em out of tinsel
paper and stuck them on to glazed calico. On
this banner was these words : —
' What shall I do next V
* Why, blow your broiua out 1 '
That took immensely, for the people said
* That is wery well.* It was tlie time the war
was on. I dare say I took between 3/. and 4/.
that time. There was thre«> of us rowed in
with it, so we got a few shillings a-piece.
"The best one I ever had was the trial of
Guy Fawkes. There was foiur figures, and
they was drawn about in a horse and cart.
There was Guy Fawkes, and two soldiers had
hold of him, and thpre was the king sitting in
a chair in front. The king was in a acariet
88
LOSDOS LABOUR ASD THE LOXDOy POOB,
yelvet cloak, sitting in an old arm-choir,
papered over to make it look decent. There
was green and blue paper hanging over the
arms to hide the ragged parts of it The
king's cloak cost sevenponce o-yard, and there
was seven of these jards. He had a gilt paper
crown and a long black wig made out of some
rope. His trunks was black and crimson, and
he had blue stockings and red boots. I made
him up out of my own head, and not from pic-
tures. It was just as I thought would be the
best way to get it up, out of my own head. I've
seed the picture of Guy Fawkes, because I've
got a book of it at home. I never was no scho-
lar, not in the least The soldiers had a breast-
plate of white steel paper, and baggy knee-
breeches, and top boots. They had a big pipe
each, with a top cut out of tin. Their helmets
was the same us in the pictures, of steel paper,
and a kind of a disli-cover shape, with a petRi
in front and behind. Guy was dressed the same
kind as he was this year, with a black velvet
dress and red cloak, and red boots turning
over at U)p, with lace sewed on. I never made
any of my figures fVightful. I get 'em as near
as I can to the life hkc.
^* I reckon that show was the best as I ever
had about I done ver}- well with it They said
it was a very good sight, and well got up.
I dare say it cost me, with one thing and
another, pretty nigh 4/. to get up. There was
two of us to shove, me and my brother.
I know I had a sovereign to myself when
it was over, besides a little bit of meriy-
moking.
This year I hod the apprehension of Guy
Fawkes by Lord Suflfolk and Monteagle. I've
followed up the hLst'ry as close as I can. Next
year I shall have him being burnt, with a lot
of faggits and things about him. This year
the figures cost about 3/. getting up. Fawkes
was dressed in his old costume of black velvet
and red boots. I bought some black velvet
breeches in Petticoat-lone, and I gave Is. Od.
for the two pair. They was old theatrical
breeches. Their lordships was dressed in
gold scale-armour like, of cut-out paper pasted
on, and their legs imitated steel. They
had three-comer cock'd hats, with white fea-
thers in. I always buy fierce-looking masks
^ith frowns, but one of them this year was
a smiling — Lord Monteagle, I think. I took
the figures as near as I can form from a pic-
ture I saw of Guy Fawkes being apprehended.
I placed them figures in a horse and cart,
and piled them up on apple-chests lo the level
of the cart, so they showed all, their feet and
all. I bind the chests with a piece of table-
cover cloth. The first day we went out we
took 2/. 7»., and the second we took 1/. 17.s„
and the last day we took 21. U. We did
so well the third day because we went into
the country, about Tottenham and Eilmonton.
They never witnessed such a thing down
them parts. The drummer what I had with
me was a blind man, and well known down
there. They call him Friday, beoanse he goes
there every Friday, so what they usually gava
him we had. Our horse was blind, so we ifM
obliged to have one to lead him in front aoA
anoUier to lead the blind dnunmer behmdL
We paid the drummer 16<. for the three dajt*
We paid for two days 10«., and the. thud ooa
most of it came in, and we all went shaieai
It was a pony more than a horse. I think
we got about a 1/. a-piece clear, when ira
was done on the Friday night It took ma
six weeks getting up in my leisure time.
There was the Russian bear in front Ha
wore a monkey dress, the same as in tha
pantomimes, and that did just as well fijr
a bear. I painted his face as near as I oonld
get it to moke it look frightfhL
" AVhen I'm building up a guy we firat f&i
some bags and things, and cut 'em out to At
shape of the legs and things, and then sew U
up. We sew the body and arms and all rcmnd
together in one. Wo puts two poles down fat
the legs and then a cross-piece at the baQr
and another cross-piece at the shoulder, and
that holds 'em firm. We fiU the legs with
sawdust, and stuff it down with our hands to
make it tight It takes two sacks of aantrdmi
for tliree figures, but I generally have it giro
to me, for I know a young feller as worln at
the wood- chopping. We stand 'em up in tha
room against the wall, whilst we are dressing
them. We have lots of chaps come to see us
working at the guys. Some will sit thara
for many hoiu^ looking at us. We stuff the
body with shavings and paper and any sort of
rubbish. I sew whatever is wanted mptUg
and in fact my fingers is sore now with the
thimble, for I don't know how to use a thiraMe^
and I feel awkward with it. I design etexy*
thing and cut out all the clothes and tha
painting and all. They allow me 5f. for the
building. This last group took me six weeka,
— not constant, you know, but only laiy tima
of a night. I lost one or two days over it,
that's alL
** I think there was more Guy Fawkeses oni
this year than ever was out before. There
was one had Guy Fawkes and Punch and
a Clown in a cart, and anotlier was liisa
Nightingale and two soldiers. It was meant
to be complimentary to that lady, but for
myself I think it insulting to bring out a ladr
like that as a guy, when she's done good
to all.
" They always reckon me to be about the
first hand in London at building a guy.
I never see none like them, nor no one else
I don't think. It took us two quire of gold
paper and one quire of silver paper to do
the armour and the banner and other things.
The gold paper is 6d. a-sheet, and the silver
is Id. a sheet It wouldn't look so noble if
we didn't use the gold paper.
"This year we had three clowns with oa,
and we paid them 3s. a-day each. I waa
dressed up as a clown, too. We had to dance
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
00
dbont, and Joke, and say wbat we thought
vwdd be ttaaij to the people. I bad a
diQd in mj arma made of a doll stuffed with
durdoga, and made to represent a little boy.
It was juat to make a laugh. Every one
I went up to I told the doU to ask their uncle
«r their aunt far a copper. I had another
nore, too, of calling for * Bill Bowers ' in the
crowd, and if I got into any row, or anything,
I used to call to him to protect me. We hid
no time to say much, for we kept on moving,
and it loses time to talk.
* We took the guy round Goswell-road and
Pentonville the first day, and on the second
w« waa round Bethnal-green way, among the
weavers. We went that way for safety the
Mcond day, for the police won't interrupt you
fl«re. The private houses give tlio most
They fery seldom give more than a penny.
I dun't 8upj[>ot»e we got more than Ss. or 4s. in
aSver all the three days.
** Sometimes we have rough work with the
Irish going about with guys. The ' No
PopeiT * year tliere was several rows. I was
up at Iidington-gate, there, in the Lower-road,
and there's loads of Irish live up there, and a
loogh lot they are. They came out with sticks
and bricks, and cut after us. We bolted with
the guy. If our guy hadnt been very Arm,
H would have been jolted to bits. We always
&nli:d straps round the feet, and support it on
rails at the waist, and lashed to the sides.
We bolted from this Irish mob over Islington -
green, and down John -street into Clerkenwell.
My mate got a nick with a stone just on the
head. It just give him a sli^'ht hurt, and
drawed the blood from him. Wo jumped up
ID the donkey-cart and drove off.
•• There was one guy was pulled out of the
eirt this year, down by Old Gravel-lane, in the
Baicfiff-higliway. They pulled Miss Nightin-
gale out of the cart and ran away with her,
and regular destroyed the two soldiers that was
<m eadi aide of her. Sometimes the cab-
men lash at the guys with their whips. We
never say anything to them, for fear we
mi^ht get stopped by the police for making
a row. You stand a chance of having a
feather knocked off, or such-likC| as is attached
to them.
■* There's a lot of boys goes about on the 5th
with fldcks, and make a reprular businofis of
knocking guys to irieces. The/re called guy-
tmashers. They don't come to us. we're too
•trong for that, but they only manage the
fittle ones, as they can take advantage of.
They do this some of tliem to take tlie money
the biivs have collected. I have had regular
prigs following my show, to ])ick the pockets
of those looking on, but as sure as I see them
I start tliem off by putting a policeman on to
them.
"When we're showing, I don't take no
trouble to invent new rhymes, but stick to the
r>ld poetry. There's some do new songs. I
luually &ing out, —
No. LIX.
' OentlefoIkB, praj
BeaMmbwr this day;
Tia with kind zuitioa we bzing
TbefijTureofalv
And villAnoua Ouy,
Wko wanted to murder the king.
By nowdnr and otore,
His bitterly gwota.
iji ho ekulk'd in the walla to repair.
The parliament, too.
By lam and his crew,
Should all be blowod up in the air.
But James, "rery wise.
Did the PapistH sunnise.
As they plotted the cruelty groat ;
He know'd their intent,
4^0 Suffolk hu sent
To save both kingdom and state.
Ouy Fairibos he was found
With a lantern unduiground.
And soon was the traitor bound fast :
And they swore he should di(^
8o they hang him up high.
And bornt him to ashes at last.
So we, once a-year.
Come round without fear.
To keopup remembruneo of this day ;
While aasistftuce from you
May brinf( a review
Of Guy Fawkes a-blaziug away.
So hollo, boys f hollo, bojrs !
Sliout and huzsa ;
So hollo, boys ! hollo, boys !
Keep up this day !
So hollo, boys ! hollo, ooys f
An<l make the bells ring !
Down with the Pope, and God save the Queen !*
" It used to be King, but we say Queen now,
and though it don't rh}iiic, it's more correct.
" It's very seldom that the police say anything
to us, 80 long as we don't stop too long in the
gangway not to create any mob. They join in
the fun and laugh like the rest. Wherever we
go there is a great crowd from morning to
night.
** We have dinner on Ouy Fawkea' doys be-
tween one and two. We go to any place where
it's convenient for us to stop at, generally at
some public-house. We go inside, and leave
some of the lads to look after the guy outside.
We always keep near the window, where we
can look out into the street, and we keep our-
selves ready to pop out in a minute if any-
body should attack the guy. We generally go
into some by-way, where there ain't mucJi
traffic. We never wos interrupted much whilst
we was at dinner, only by boys chucking stones
and flinging things at it ; and tliey run off aa
soon as wo come out.
" There's one party that goes out with a
guy that sells it afterwards. They stop in
London for the iirst two days, and then they
work their way into the country as fur as
Sheemess, and then they sells the guy to form
part of tlio procession on Lord -mayor's day.
It's the watermen and ferrymen mostly bu}- it,
and they carry it about in a kind of merriment
among themselves, and at night they bum it
and let off fireworks. They don't make no
charge for coming to see it bunit, but it's
open to the uir and free to the public.
<* None of the good guj's taken about od
Y'
*
70
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
the 5th are burnt at night, nnlegs some gen-
tlemen buy them. I used to sell mine at one
time to the Albert Saloon. Sometimes they'd
give me V)». for it, and sometimes less, accord-
ing to what kind of a one I had. Three years,
I think, I sold it to them. They used to bum
it at first in the gardens at the back, but after
they found the gardens fill very well without
it, so they wouldn't have any more.
'* I always take the sawdust and shavings
out of my guys, and save the clothes for another
year. The clothes are left in my possession
to be taken core of. I make a kind of private
bonfire in our yard with the sawdust and
shavings, and the neighbours oome there and
have a kind of a spree, and shove one another
into the fire, and kick it about the yard, and
one thing and another.
" When I am building the guy, I begin about
six weeks before 5th of November comes, and
then we subscribe a shillmg or two each and
buy such things as we wants. Then, when we
wants more, I goes to my pals, who live close
by, and we subscribe another shilling or six-
pence each, according to how we gets on in
the day. Nearly aU those that take out guys
are mostly street traders.
*' The heaviest expense for any guy I've built
was 4/. for one of four figures."
Guy Fawkes (Boy).
^ I ALWAYS go out with a Guy Fawkes every
year. I'm seventeen years old, and I've been
out with a guy ever since I can remember, ex-
oept last year ; I didn't then, because I was in
Middlesex Hospital with an abscess, brought
on by the rbeumatio fever, I was in the hos-
pital a month. My father was an undertaker;
he's been dead four moi^hs : mother carries
onjthe trade. He didn't lik« my going out
with guys, but I always would* He didn't like
it at all, he used to sny it was a disgrace.
Mother didn't much fiincy my doing it this
year. When I was a very little un, I was carried
about for a guy. I couldn't a been more than
seven years old when I first begun. They put
paper-hangings round my legs — they got it
from Baldwin's, in the Tottenham Court-road;
sometimes they bought, and sometimes got it
give 'em ; but they give a rare lot for a penny
or twopence. After that they put me on a
apron made of the same sort of paper — showy,
you know — then they put a lot of tinsel bows,
and at the comers they cut a sort of tail like
there is to farriers' aprons, and it look stun-
nin' ; then they put on my chest a tinsel heart
and rosettes ; they was green and red, because
it shows off. All up my arms I had bows and
things to make a show-off. Then I put on a
black mask with a little red on the cheek, to
make me look like a devil : it had boras, too.
Always pick out a devil's mask with horns : it
looks fine, and ftightens the people a'most
The boy that dressed me was a very clever
chap, and made a guy to rights. Why, he
made me a little guy about a foot high, ta
carry in my lap— it was piecings of qmlting
like, a sort of patch-work all sewn together,-^
and then he filled it with saw-dust, and made'
a head of shavings. He picked the shavings-'
small, and then sewed 'em up in a little bag ^
and then he painted a fiice, and it looked wer^
well; and he made it a little tinsel bob-tail
coat, and a tinsel cap with two feathers on the
top. It was made to sit in a chair; and
there was a piece of string tied to each of the
legs and the arms, and a string come behind;
and I used to pull it, and the legs and arms'
jumped up. I was put in a chair, and two old
broom-handles was put through the rails, and
then a boy got in front, and another behind^
and carried me off round Holbom way in the
streets and squares. Every now and then they
put me down before a window ; then one of
'em used to say the speech, and I used all the
time to keep pulling the string of my little
guy, and it amused the children at the win>
ders. After they'd said the speech we all
shouted hurrah ! and tlusn Kome of them went
and knocked at the door and asked * Please to
remember the guy;' and the little childrea
brought us ha'pence and pence; and some-
times the ladies and gentlemen chucked us
some money out of the winder. At last they
carried me into Russell-square. They pat hm
down befbre a gentleman's house and begun
saying the speech : while they was saying itp
up comes a lot o' boys with sticks in iheir
hands. One of our chaps knowed what they
was after, and took the little guy out of my
hand, and went on saving the speech. I kept
all on sitting still. After a bit one of thes«
'ere boys says, * Oh, it's a dead guy; let's have &
lark with it ! ' and then one of 'em gives me a
punch in the eye with his fist, and then snatched
the mask off my face, and when he'd pulled it
off he says, * Oh, BUI, it's a live un!* Wa
was afraid we should get the worst of it, so wa
run away round the square. The biggest cma
of our lot carried the chair. Alter we'd run.
a little way they caught us again, and says^
* Now then, give us all your money ; ' with
that, some ladles and gentlemen that see it all
came up to 'em and says, ' If you don't go we'll
lock you up ; ' and so they let us go away. And
so we went to another place where they sold
masks; and we bought another. Then they
asked me to be guy again, but I wouldn't, for
I'd got a black-eye through it already. So
they got another to finish out the day. When
we got home at night we shared 2t. ft-
piece. There was five of us altogether; but I
think they chisselled me. I know they got A
deal more than that, for they'd had a good
many sixpences and shillings. People usent
to think much of a shilling that time a-day,
because there wasn't any but little guys about
then ; but I don't know but what the people
now encourage little guys most, because thif
say that the chaps with the big ones ought to
go to work.
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOB.
71
•" Next year I was ont with a stuffed guy.
Tb^ wanted me to be gay again, because I
visn't frightened easy, and I was lightish ; but
I told *em * No, Tve had enough of being guy ;
I don*! be guy any more : besides, I had such
^B0 money for getting a whack in the eye ! '
We got on pretty well that year; but it gets
VDB and wns every year. We got hardly any-
tiung this year ; and next I don't suppose we
4iall get anything at all. These chaps that
go alMiit pitchin' into guys we call 'guy
aoashers;' but they don't do it only for the
krk of smashing the guys : they do it for the
purpose of taking the boys' money away, and
flometimes the clothes. If one of 'em has a
bde in his boots, and he sees a guy with a
food x>air on, he pretty soon pulls 'em of the
goy and hooks it off with 'em.
** After I'd been out with guys for three
«r four years, I got big enough to go to work,
and I used to go along with my brother and
help hsn at a ooal-shed, carrying out coals. I
was there ten months, and then one night — a
bitter cold night, it was freezing hard — we had
1 ji^htha lamp to light in the shop ; and as
"Be and my brother was doing it, cither apiece
tif the match dropped in or else he poured it
over, I cant say which, but all at once it ex-
ploded and blowed me across the road and
knocked him in the shop all a-flre; and I was
all a-fire, too — see how it's burnt my face and
the hand I held the lucifer in. A woman run
out of the next shop with some wet sacks, and
:diraw'd 'em upon me, but it flared up higher
then : water dont put it out, unless it's a mass
of water l^ce a engine. Then a milkman run
Up and pulled off his cape and throwed it over
me, ana that put it out ; then he set me up,
and I run home, though I don't know how 1
fot thoe, and for two day^ after I didn't know
:Snybody. Another man ran into the shop and
pulled out my brother, and we was both taken
to the University HospitaL Two or three
people touched me, and the skin came off on
their hands, and at nine o'clock the next
jBomingmy brother died. When they took
me to the hospital they had no bed forme, and
to they sent me home again, and I was seven
months before I got well. But I've never
been to aay well since, and I shall never be fit
for hard work any more.
** The next year I went out with a guy
again, and I got on pretty well ; and so I've
dime every year since, except last. I've had
several litUe places since I got bumt^ but they
haven't lasted long.
* This year I made a stunning guy. First of
till got a ]>air of my own breeches — black
VIS— and stuffed 'em full of shavings. I tied
the bottoms with a bit of string. Then I got
a blaek eoat— that belonged to another boy —
and sewed it all round to the trousers ; then
we filled that with shavings, and give him a
good oorpoimtlon. Then we got a block, sich
IS the milliners have, and shoved that right
ia the neck of the coat, and then we shoved
some more shavings all round, to make it stick
in tight ; and when that was done it looked just
like a dead man. I know something about
dead men, because my father was always in
that line. Then we got some horsehair and
some glue, and plastered the head all round
with glue, and stuck the horse-hair on to imi-
tate the hair of a man ; then we put the mask
on : it was a twopenny one — they're a great
deal cheaper than they used to be, you can get
a very good one now for a penny — it had a
great big nose, and it had two red horns, black
eyebrows, and red cheeks. I like devils, they're
so ugly. I bought a good-looldng un two or
three years ago. and wo didn't get hardly any-
thing, the people said, *Ah! it's too good-
looking; it don't frighten us at all.' Well,
then, after we put on his mask we got two
gloves, one was a woollen un, and the other a kid
un, and stuffed them full of shavings, and tied
'em down to the chair. We didn't have no
lantern, 'cos it keeps on falling out of his hands.
After that we put on an old pair of lace-up
boots. We tied 'em on to the legs of the
breeches. The feet mostly twistes round, but
we stopped that; we shoved a stick up the leg of
his breeches, and the other end into the boot,
and tied it, and then it couldn't twist round
very easy. After that we put a paper hanging-
cap on his head ; it was silk- velvet kind of
paper, and decorated all over with tinsel bows.
His coat we pasted all over with blue and green
tinsel bows and pictures. They was painted
theatrical characters, what we buy at the shop
a ha'penny a sheet plain, and penny a sheet
coloured : we bought 'em plain, and coloured
them ourselves. A-top of his hat we put a
homament. We got some red paper, and cut it
into narrow strips, and curled it with the blade
of the scissors, and stuck it on like a feather.
We made him a fine apron of hanging-paper,
and cut that in slips up to his knees, and curled
it with the scissors, the same as his feather,
and decorated it with stars, and bows, and
things, made out of paper, all manner of
colours, and pieces of tinseL After we'd
finished the guy we made ourselves cock'd
hats, all alike, and then we tied him in a chair,
and wrote on his breast, * Villanous Chty.*
Then we put two broomsticks under the chair
and carried him out. There was four of us,
and the two that wasn't canying, they had a
large bough of a tree each, with a knob at the
top to protect the guy. We started off at once,
and got into the squares, and put him in Aront of
the gentlemen's houses, and said this speech: —
•Pray, gentlefolka, pray
Romomb«r this day.
At which kind notice we bring
This figxire of dy.
Old. vUlanous Guy,
He wanted to murder the king.
With powder in store.
He bitterly swore
By him in the vaulte to compare,
By him and his crew,
And parliament, ton.
Should all be blow'd up in the air.
79
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON JPOOB.
Bo ploftae to remombor
The fifth of Norember,
The Bunpowder titnaoD and plol,
1 aeo no reason
Why gunpowder troMon
Should ever be foii^t.
So hollo, boye ! hollo^ bojre I
Shout otil the day !
Hollo, boys ! hollo, boys I
Hollo, Hurrah !
'* After we'd finished our speech in one of the
tqnareB, and hollowed Hurrah! the beadle
come out, and said he'd give us the stick about
our bocks, and the guy too, if we didn't go away.
&o we went away, and got into Russcil-square
and Bedford-square ; but there was such a lot
of small guys out, that we did worse than ever
we'd done before. When wo was in South-
ampton-btreet, Holbom, I finished the speech
with ' Down with the Pope, and God save the
Qocen ;' so four shoe-bluok ben's come up, and
says, says they, * What do you say, Down \**ith
tho Pope and God save the Queen for?' And
1 says, * 1 didn't moan no harm of iL' With
that they makes use of some bod language, and
toM me they'd smash my head and tho guy's
too ; and they was going to do it, when up
oomofl a boy that I knew, and I says to him,
'They're going to knock mo about;' so he
says, * No they won't ;' so then tho boys maile
their r.'ply, and said thi^ would. So I told
'em they was very fast about fighting, I'd fight
one of them ; so with that they all got ready
to pitch upon me : but when they see this
other boy stuck to mo, they went oti, and never
Atnick a blow. When we got homo I opened
the money-box and shared tho money; one
had bd,, and two had ^d. each, imd I hod Id.
because I said the speech. At night we pulled
him all to pieces, and burnt his stutfing, and let
off some squibs and crackers. I always used
to spend the money I got guying on myself. I
used to buy somi 'times fowls, because I could
sell tlie eggs. There is some boys that take
out guys as do it for the sake of getting a
bit of bread and butter, but not many as I
knows of.
** It don't cost much to mako a gny. The
clothes we never bums — tliey're generally too
good : they're our own clothes, what we wears
at other times ; and when people bum a guy
they always pull off any of the Uiings that's of
use ftist ; but mostly the guy gets pulled all to
pieces, and only the shanugs gets burnt.''
Ax Old Stbest Showxan.
A sHont, thick-set man, with small, puckered-
up eyes, aiid dressed in an old brown velveteen
shooting-jacket gave me an account of some
bygone exhibitions^ of the galanteo show.
*• My father was a soldier," he said, " and
was away in foreign parts, and I and a sister
Hved "with my mother in St, Martin's work-
house. I was fifty- five last New-year's -duy.
My unde, a bootmaker in St Mortin's-lane,
took my mother out of the workhouse, that
she might do a little washing, and pick up a
linng for herself; and we children went to
live with my grandfather, a tailor. After his
death, and after many chanses, we had a
lodging in the Dials, and thero — ^, the
sweep, coaxed me with pudding one day, and
encouraged me so well, that I didn't like to go
bock to my mother ; and at last I was 'pren-
ticed to him from Hatton-Garden on a mouth's
trial, and I liked chimley-sweeping for thst
month ; but it was quite dillerent when I wsa
regularly indentured. I was cruelly-treated
then, and poorly fed, and had to turn out
barefooted between three and four man^ a
morning in frost and snow. In first climbmg
the chimleys, a man stood beneath me, ana
pushed me up, telling me how to use mj
elbows and knees, and if I slipped, he was
beneath me and kctched me, and shoved me
up again. Tlie skin camo off my knees and
elU>ws; here's the marks now, you see. I
suffered a invent deal, as well as Dan Du£t^ a
fellow-swccp, a boy that died. Tve been to
Mrs. Montague's dinner in the Square on the
1st of May, when I was a boy-sweep. It was
a dinner m honour of her son having been
stolen away by a sweep." (The man's own
wortlfi.) "I suppose there were more than
three hundred of us sweeps there, in a large
green, at Uie back of her house. I run awaj
from my master once, but was carried back»
and was rather better used. My master then
got me knee and ankle-pads, and batlied n^
limbs in salt and water, and I managed to
drag on seven sorrowful years with him. I
was glad to be my own man at last, and I cut
the sweep- trade, bought paodean pipes, and
started with an organ-man, as his mate. I
saved money witli the organ-man and then
bought a drum. Ho gave me five shillings,
a-week and my wittles and drink, washing and
lodging ; but there wasn't so much music afloat
then. I left Uie music-man and went out
with ' Michael,' the Italy bear. Michael was
the man's name that brought over the bear
from somewhere abroad. He was a Ital}* man;
I and he used to beat the bear, and manage her;
j they called her Jenny ; but Michael ^-as not
I to say roughish to her, unless she was obstro-
I pelous. If she were, he showed her the large
! mop-stick, and beat her with it — hard some-
times— specially when she wouldn't let the
monkey get a top on her head ; for that was
a part of the performance. The monkey was
dressed the same as a soldier, but the bear
had no dress but her muzzle and chain. The
monkey (a clover fellow he was. and could
jump over sticks like a Christian) was called
Billy. He jumped up and down the bear, too,
and on his master's shoulders, where he set
as Michael walked up and down the streets.
Tho bear had been taught to roll and tumble.
She rolled right over her head, all round a
stick, and th(>n she danced round about it.
She did it. at the word of command. IMicbnul
1 said to her, * Hound and round again.' We
tONJDOK LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
73
fed bar on bread, a qoaitem-loaf every night
afkerherwoik in half-a-pail of water, the same
emy morning ; never any meat— notliing bat
Inad. boiiad 'tatoea, or raw canota: meat
voold hava mada her savage. The monkey
m fed upon nata, apples, gingerbread, or
■tything. Beaidea them we had two dancing-
dogi. Tlia bear didnt Uke them, and they
wre kept on one side in performing. The
dqp jiunpad through hoops, and danced on
flinr Una legs; they're easyish enough trained.
SoDietiniea the batchers set bull- dogs, two or
thiee at a tima, at Jenny ; and Michael and me
httl to boat them off as well as the two other
■en that we had with us. Those two men col-
laotad the money, and I played the pipes and
dniBi, and Miohaal minded the bear and the
dogs and monkey. In London we did very well.
The West-end was the best. Whitechapel was
BRwded for us, but only with ha'pence. I
don't know what Michael made, but I had
Mfven shilHngs a-week, with my wittles and
kd^ng. Michael done well. We generally
had twenty to thirty shillings every ni^ht in
ha'pence, and used to ^vo twcnt^'-onc shillings
af It for a one-pound note ; for they was in
than. When we've travelled in the country,
we've sometimes had trouble to get lodgings
%K the bear. We've had to sleep in outhouses
widi her, and have sometimes frightened people
that didn't know as we was there, but nothing
■Minns Bears is well-behaved enough if they
aiii*t amravated. Perhaps no one but nio is
JaA in Enghind now what properly understands
adaBMong-bear.
^ Jenny wasn't ever baited, but offers was
Bade for it by sporting characters.
** The country was better than London,
whan the weather aUowed ; but in Gloucester,
Chahftnham, and a good many places, we
wient let in the high streets.
* The gentlelblk in the balconies, both in
tofwn and country, where they had a good
■gfat, were our best friends.
■"It's mora than thirty years ago — yes, a
gaod bit more now; at Chester races, gne
yaar, we were all taken, and put into prison :
War, and dogs, andmusicianer, and all— every
ana-— because we played a day after the races ;
Ibatwaa Saturday.
^ We were all in quod until Monday morn-
ing. I don't know how the authorities fed the
bsar. We wero each in a separate cell, and I
kai braad and cheese, and gruel.
** Oa Mondi^ morning we were discharged,
~ the bear was shot by the magistrate's
«dm. They wanted to bang poor Jenny at
Int, bat she was shot, and sold to the hair-
* I aonldn't stay to see her shot, and had to
is into an alehouse on the road. I don't
kaow vbat her caaoase sold for. It wasn't
nnhL
** Michael and me then parted at Chester,
Hd ha want home rich to Italy, taking his
Mtaksj aiMl dofa vith him, I believe.
** He lived very careful, chiefly on rice and
cabbage, and a veiy little meat with it, which
he called ' manesta.' He was a very old man.
I had ' manesta ' sometimes, but I didn't like
it much. I drummed and piped my way
from Chester to London, and there took up
with another forei^er, named Green, in the
dock-work-flgure hne.
*< The figures were a Turk called Blue-
beard, a sailor, a lady called Lady Catarina,
and Neptune's car, which we called Nelson's car
as well ; but it wjjts Neptune's car by rights.
** These figures danced on a table, when
taken out of a box. Each had its own dance
when wound up.
^ First came my Lady Catarina. She, and
the others of tliem, were full two feet high.
She had a cork body, and a very handsome
silk dress, or muslin, according to the fashion^
or the season. Black in Lent, according ta
what the nobility wore.
" Lady Catarina, when wound up, danced a
reel for seven minutes, the sailor a hornpipe,,
and Bluebeard shook his head, rolled his
eyes, and moved his sword, just as natural as
life. Neptune's car went either straight or
round Uie table, as it was set.
" We often showed our performances in the
houses of the nobility, and would get ten or
twelve shillings at a good house, where there
were children.
**I had a third share, and in town and
country we cleared fifty shilliugs a- week, at
least, every week, among the three of us, after
all our keep and expenses were paid.
*^ At Doncaster races we have taken three
pounds in a-day, and four pounds at Linooln
races.
^* Country, in stmimer, is better than town.
There's now no such exhibition, barring the
one I have ; but that's pledged. It cost twenty
pounds at Mr. 's for the four figures with-
out dress. I saved money, which went in an
illness of rheumatic gout. There's no bears
at all allowed now. Times are changed, and
all for the worser. I stuck to the olock-work
concern sixteen years, and knows all parts of
the country — Ireland, Scotland, Guernsey,
Jersey, and the Isle of Wight.
** A month before Christmas we used to put
the figures by, for the weather didn't suit;
and then we went with a galantee show of a
magic lantern. We showed it on a white
sheet, or on the ceiling, big or little, in the
houses of the gentlefolk, and the schools
where there was a brouking-up. It was shown
by way of a treat to the scholars. There was
Harlequin, and Billy Button, and such-like.
We had ten and sixpence and fifteen shillings
for each performance, and did very well in-
deed. I have that galantee show now, but
it brings in very little.
^ Green's dead, aud all in the line's dead,
but me. The gaUmtee show don't answer,
because magic lanterns are so cheap in the
shops. When we started, magio lanterns
74
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOS.
wasn't so common ; but '^c can*t keep hold of
a good thing in these times. It was a reg'lar
thmg for Christmas once — the galantee
shows*
*'I can make, in a holiday time, twenty
fihillings a-week; but thafs only at holiday
times, and is just a mere casualty a few times
a year.
" I do other jobs, when I can get 'em — at
other times, I delivers bills, carries boards, and
helps at funerals.**
The Chinese Shades.
'* The proper name of my exhibition,** said a
showman of this class to me, ** is Lez HombreSf
or the shades ; that's the proper name for it,
for Baron Rothschild told me so when I per-
formed before him. We calls it the Chinese
galantee show. It was invented over there
with the Chinese, and some travellers went
over there and see them doing it, and they
come over here and tell us about it. They
didn't do it as we do, you know. As for doing
pieces, we lick them out of the field. Them only
did the shadows, we do a piece with 'em.
** I should say, sir, — let me calculate — it is
about twenty-six years since the ombres first
come out. Keduce it if you like, but that's the
time. Thomas Paris was the first as come
out with them. Then Jim Macklin, and Paul
Herring the celebrated clown, and the best
showman of Punch in the world for pantomime
tricks — comic business, you know, but not for
showing in a gentleman's house — ^was the next
that ever come out in the streets with the
Chinese galantee show. I think it was his own
ingenuity that first gave him the notion. It
was thoughts of mind, you know, — ^you form
the opinion in your own mind, you know, by
taking it Arom the Chinese. They met a
fHend of theirs who had come from China, and
he told him of the shadows. One word is as
good as fifty, if it's a little grammatical — sound
judgment. When it first come out, he began
with the scene called ' Mr. Jobson the Cobbler,*
and that scene has continued to be popular to
the present day, and the best scene out. He
did it just equaUy the same as they doHt now,
in a Punch-and-Judy frame, with a piece of
calico stretched in front, and a light behind to
throw the shadows on the sheet.
" Paul Herring did excellent well with it —
nothing less than 30«. or 21. a-night. He
didn't stop long at it, because he is a stage
clown, and had other business to attend to.
I saw him the first time he performed. It
was in the Waterloo-road, and the next night
I were out with one of my own. I only require
to see a thing once to be able to do it ; but you
must have ingenuity, or it's no use whatsum-
diver. Every one who had a Punch-and-Judy
firame took to it ; doing the regular business in
the day and at night turning to the shadows.
In less than a week there were two others out,
and then Paul Hening cut it He only done
it for a lark. He was hard up for mone
got it
'*! was the first that ever had a T^
piece acted in his show. I believe t
nobody else as did, but only them that's <
me. They come and follow me, you t
stand, and copied me. I am the aiitl
'Cobbler Jobson,' and * Kitty biling the I
the Woodchopper's Frolic* There's
Button's journey to Brentford on hors<
and his favorite servant, Jeremiah Stitch<
want of a situation.* I'm the author ol
too. It*8 adapted firom the equestrian
brought out at Astley's. I don't knon
composed ' the Broken Bridge.' Ifs^ U
gone by to trace who the first author is,
was adapted firom the piece brought o\
merly at Drury-lane Theatre. Old ai
gentlemen has told mo so who saw it, wl
was first brought out, and they're old ei
to be my grandfather. I've new revised
"We in general goes out about 7 o'
because we geti} away from the noisy ch
—they place them to bed, and we ge
spectable audiences. We choose our ]
for pitching : Leicester-square is a very
place, and so is Islington, but Regent-stJ
about the principal. There's only two
about now, for it's dying away. When
mind to show I can show, and no mistal
I'm better now than I was twenty years
" * Kitty biling the Pot, or the Woodcho
Frolic,' is this. The shadow of the firep]
seen with the fire alight, and the stxu
made to go up by mechanism. The
chopper comes in very hungry and wan
supper. He calls his wife to ask if the '.
mutton is done. He speaks in a gruff
He says, * My wife is very lazy, and I
think my supper's done. I've been chc
wood all the days of my life, and I "w
bullock's head and a sack of potatoes.*
wife comes t3 him and speaks in a squc
voice, and she tells him to go and chop
more wood, and in half-an-hour it w
ready. Exaunt. Then the wife call
daughter Kitty, and tells her to see thi
pot don't boil over ; and above all to be
and see that the cat don't steal the n
out of the pot. Kitty says, * Yes, moiht
take particular care that the mutton don^
the cat out of the pot.' Cross-question
see — comic business. Then mother
* Kitty, bring up the broom to sweep u
room,' and Kitty replies, *Yes, mumm
bring up the room to sweep up the bi
Exaunt again. It's regular stage businei
cross -questions. She brings up the t
and the cat's introduced whilst she is sw&
The cat goes Meaw ! meaw ! meaw ! and
gives it a crack with the broom. Then
gets the bellows and blows up the fire,
beautiful representation, for you see her
ing the bellows, and the fire get up, an
sparks fly up the chimney. She says,
don't make haste the mutton will be v\
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
76
\ the cat out of the pot' She blows the
right out, and says, • Why, the fire's blowed
bellows out ! but I dont mind, I shall go
play at shuttlecock.' Child hke, yon see.
1 the cat comes in again, and says, Meaw !
ir! and then gets up and steals the
on. You see her drag it out by the claw,
she bums herself and goes, spit ! spit !
1 the mother comes in and sees the fire
and says, ' Where my daughter ? Here's
lie out, and my husband's coming home,
there isn't a bit of mutton to eat! ' She
' Kitty, Kitty ! ' and when she comes, asks
■e ahe's been. 'I've been playing at
tleeock.' The mother asks, ' A^ you sure
eat hasn't stolen the mutton.' * Oh, no,
iiK>ther,' and exaunt again. Then the
ler goes to the pot. She's represented
a aquint, so she has one eye up the
mey and another in the pot. She calls
' Where's the mutton ? It must be down
le bottom, or it has boiled away.' Then
child comes in and says, 'Oh! mother,
ler, here's a great he-she-tom cat been and
! off with the mutton.' Then the mother
down, and calls out, *I shall faint, I
.faint! Oh! bring me a pail of gin.' Then
leriTes, and goes and looks in the pot
1. Irs regular stage business, and if it
only done on a large scale would be
ler^nL Then comes the correction scene,
r comes to her, and her mother says,
ere have you been ? ' and Kitty says, * Flay-
■t shuttlecock, mummy;* and then the
ler says, ' I'll give you some shuttlecock
the gridiron,' and exaunt, and comes
with the gridiron ; and then you see her
Ae child on her knee correcting of her.
& the woodchopper comes in and wants
I9l»er, after chopping wood all the days
s life. ' Wliere's supper ?' * Oh, a nasty
he-the-tom cat has been and stole the
!0Q out of the pot.' 'Wliat?' passionate
:tjj, you see. 'Then she says, ' You must
up with bread and cheese.* He answers.
It don't suit some people,' and then comes
ihL Then Spring-heeled Jack is intro-
4, and he carries off the fireplace an(| pot
iIL Exaunt That's the end of the piece,
a TCiy good one it was. I took it from
s» and improyed on it Paris had no
c^ile figures. It was yery inferior. He
no fire. It's a dangerous concern the fire
IF it's done with a httle bit of the snufi* of
ndle, and if you don't mind you go alight,
ft beautiful performance.
Oar exhibition generally begins with a
w doing a hornpipe, and then the tight
I dancing, and auer that the Scotch hom-
i dancing. The little figures regularly
• their legs as if dancing, Uie same as on
•tage, onfy it's more cleverer, for they're
la to do it by ingenuity. Then comes the
e called ' Cobbler Jobson.' We call it * the
dialile, eomic, and interesting scene of old
EtfJohaon, the London cobbler ; or, the old
Lady disappointed of her Slipper.' I am in
front, doing the speaking and playing the music
on the pandanean pipe. That's the real word
for the pipe, from the Bomans, when they
first invaded England. That's the first music
ever introduced into England, when the
Romans first invaded it. I have to do the
dialogue in four difiierent voices. There is
the child, the woman, the countryman, and
myself, and there's not many as can do it
besides me and another.
** The piece called Cobbler Jobson is this. It
opens wkh the shadow of a cottage on one side
of the sheet, and a cobbler's stall on the other.
There are boots and shoes hanging up in the
windows of the cobbler's stall. Cobbler Jobson
is supposed at work inside, and heard singing :
'An old cobbler I am.
And lire in mv stall ;
It tonres me for nouse.
Pariour, kitchen, and alL
No coin in my pocket,
No care in my pate,
I dt down at my eaae^
And get drunk when I pleaae.
Hi down, hi deny down.
** Then he sings again :
*La8t niffht I took a wife,
And when I first did woo heiv
I vowed I'd stick through life
Like cobblers' wax \mto her.
Hi down, denry down down down.'
"Then the figure of a little girl comes in
and raps at the door: 'Mr. Jobson, is my
mamma's slipper done?' *No, miss, it's not
done ; but if you'll call in half-an-hour it shall
be well done, for I've taken the soles off and
put the upper leathers in a pail to soak.'
'What, in a pail?' 'Yes, my dear, without
fail.' ' Then you won't disappint' • No, my
dear, I'd sooner a pot than a pint' ' Then I
may depend?' 'Yes, and you won't have it'
He says this aside, so the girl don't hear him.
Then Jobson begins to sing again. He comes
in froui and works. You see his lapstone and
the hammer going. He begins to sing :
' Tother morning for broakfiMt on baoon and spin-
nag«.
Says I to my wife, ' I'm going to Greenwich ;'
Says she, ' Dicky Hall, then 111 go too I '
Says I, ' BiiB. Hall, VM be dished if you do.
Hi down, hi deny down.'
** Then the little girl comes in again to
know if the slipper is done, and as it isn't it's
' My dear, you must go without it' Then
she gets impertinent, and says, ' I shan't go
with it, you nasty old waxy, waxy, waxy, waxy,
waxy ! Oh, you nasty old ball of bristles and
bunch of wax ! ' Then he tries to hit her, and
she runs into the house, and as soon as he's
at work she comes out again : * Ah, you
nasty cobbler ! who's got a lump of wax on his
breeches ? who sold his wife's shirt to buy a
ha'porth of gin ? Then the cobbler is regu-
larly vexed, and he tries to coax her into Uie
staU to larmp her. 'Here, my dear, hero's a
76
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
lump of pudden and a farden.' ' Oh, yes, yon
nasty old cobbler! you only want to give me
a lump of pudden on mv back.' * Here's a
penny, my dear, if you'll fetch it,' 'Chuck
it here, and 111 fetch it' At last she goes
into the stall, and she gets a hiding with the
hammer. She cries out, *You nasty old
cobbler waxy ! waxy, waxy ! Ill go and tell my
mother all about it* That's what we cuU
the aggriwating scene; and next comes the
passionate scene.
** He begins singing one of his songs. He
thinks he's all right now he's got rid of the
girl.
** Then comes in the old lady, shaking with
rage. * How dare you to strike my child in
this here kind of a manner ! Come out of Uie
stall, or m pull you out neck and crop ! '
Then Jobson is in a funk, and expects a
hiding. ' Oh, mum ! Fm very sorry, but your
child said, I skinned a cat for ninepence, and
called me cobbler waxpr, waxy, waxy.' * I won't
believe a word of it, Mr. Jobson.' ' Yos, mum,
your child's very insaultang.' * How daro you
strike the chick ? You nasty old villain ! Ill
tear the eyes out of you.'
" A fight then commences between theta,
and the old lady gets the worst of it. Then
they moke it up, and theyll have some gin.
* rU be a penny to your tlu^epence,' says the
cobbler; and th6 old lady says, * Oh, I can
always treat myself.* Then tliere's another
fight, for there's two fights in it. The old
lady gets the worst of it, and runs into the
cottage, and then old Jobson cries, * I'd better
be otf^ stall and all, for fear she should come
back with the kitchen poker.' That finishes
up the scene, don't you see, for ho carries oflT
the stall with him.
** Cobbler Jobson is up to the door, I think.
It's first mte; it only wants elaborating. * Billy
Button' is a very laughable thing, and equally
up to the door. There's another piece, called
* Billy Waters, the celebrated London Beggar; '
and that's a great lilt. There's the ' Bull-
baiting.' That's all the scenes I know of. I
believe I am the only man that knows the
words all through. * Kitty biling the pot'
is one of the most beautifullest scenes in the
world. It wants expounding, you know ; for
you could open it the whole length of the
theatre. I wanted to take Ramsgate Theatre,
and do it there ; but they wanted 2/. a-night,
and that was too much for me. I should
have put a sheet up, and acted it with real
figures, as large as life.
*• When I was down at Brighton, acting
with the Chinese galantee show, I was forced
to drop performing of them. Oh dear! oh
dear! don't mention it You'd have thought
the town was on fire. You never saw such
an uproar as it made ; put the town in such
an agitation, that the town authorities forced
me to desist I filled the whole of North-
street, and the people was pressing upon me
so, that I was obliged to ran away. I was
lodging at the Clarence Hotel in North-street,
at the time. I rail off down a side-street
The next day the police oome up to me and
tell me that I mustn't exhiUt that ]>6iform-
ance again.
*' I shall calculate it at 5«. a-night, when I
exhibit with the ombres. We don't go out
every night for ifs according to the weather;
but when wo do, the calculation is 5». eveiy
night. Sometimes it is 10«., or it may be only
'U, Od; but 5f. is a fair balanee. Take it
all the year round, it would come to Oj.
a-week, taking the good weather in the bad.
It's no use to exaggerate, for the shoe is sore
to pinch somewhere if you do.
'* We go out two men together, one to play
the pipes and speak the parts, and the other
to work the figures. I always do the speaking
and the music, for tliat's what is the most par-
ticular. >Vhen we do a jhill performance, such
as at juvenile parties, it takes one about one
hour and a quarter. For attending parties
we generally gets a pound, and, perhaps, we
may get three or four during the Christmas
holiday-time, or perhaps a dozen, for it's ac-
cording to the recommendation from one to
another. If you goes to a gentleman's hoose,
it's according to whether you behave yourself
in a superior sort of a manner; but if you
have any vulgarity about you you must exannt,
and there's no recommendation.
" Tom Paris, the first man that brought out
the ombres in tlie streets, was a short stout
man, and very old. He kept at it for four or
five J ears, I beUeve, and he made a very com-
fortable li>'iiig at it, but ho died poor ; what
became of him I do not know. Jim Macklin
I've very little knowledge of. He was a stage
performer, but I'm not aware what ho did
do. I don't know when he died, but he's
dead and gone ; all the old school is dead
and gone — all the old ancient performers.
Paul Herring is the only one that's alive now,
and he does the down. He's a capital clown
for tricks ; he works his own tricks : that's
the beauty of him.
" When we are performing of an evening,
the boys and children will annoy us avrfttl.
They follow us so that we are obliged to go
miles to get awuy froni them. They will have
the best places ; they give each other raps on
the head if they don't get out of each other's
way. I'm obliged to get fighting myself, and
give it them with the drumsticks. Theyll
throw a stone or two, and then you have to
run after them, and swear you're going to kill
them. There's the most boys down at Spital-
fields, and St Luke's, and at Islington ; that's
where there's the worst boys, and the most
audaciousest I dare not go into St. Luke's ;
they spile their own amusement by maldng
a noise and disturbance. Quietness is every-
thing; they haven't the sense to know that
If they give us any money it's very trifling,
only, perhaps, a farden or a halfpenny, and
then it's only one out of a fifty or a htmdred.
ZONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOE.
11
The gn^at bnnness is to keep them quiet.
No; girU ain't better behaved than bo>*8 ; they
•nas much was, I'd sooner have fifty boys
lound me than four girls. The impertioence
of them is above bearing. They come carry-
ing babie^ii, and poshing, and crowding, and
tconug one another to pieces. ' You're albre
me—I was fast — No you wasn't — Yes I was' —
aod that's the way they go on. If a big man
comes in front I'm obliged to ask liim to
go backwards, to let the little children to see.
If they're drunk, perhaps they won't, and
then there's a row, and all tho children will
j«ia in. Ob, it's dreadful erksome !
" I was once performing on Islington-green,
aotl some drunken people, whilst I was col-
letting my money, knocked over the concern
fiom wanton mischief. They said to mo,
'We haven't seen nothing, master.' I said,
•lean see yon; and haven't you got a brown?'
Then they begun laughing, and I tiuiied
round, and there was the show in a blaze,
and my mate inside a kicking. I think it was
tvo or three dnmken men did it, to injure a
poor man finom gaining his livelihood £i*om
the sweat of his brow. That's eighteen years
•go.
** I was tip at Islington last week, and I
vu really obliged to give over on accotmt of
the children. Tho moment I put it down
there was thousands round me. They was
MTCT and impertment. There was a good
eciUection of people, too. But on account of
the theatrical business we want quiet, aud
they're so noisy there's no l)eing heard. It's
monls is ererjthiug. It's shameful how pa-
Tents lets their children run about the streets.
As soon as they All ihoir bellies off they are,
tiU they are hungry again.
** The higher class of society is those who
give OS the most money. The working man
19 good for his penny or halfpenny, but the
bi^b^r class supports the exhibiticm. The
siieU« in JUegent-street ain't very good. They
cooes and looks on for a momeut, and then
go on, or sometimes they exempt themselves
with • I'm sorry, but I've got no pence.' Tho
best is the gentlemen ; I can tell them in a
■iaute by their tqipearance.
** When we ore out performing, we in ge-
neraUy bom three candles at once behind
the Gortain. One is of no utility, for it wants
expansion, don't you sec. I don't like naplitha
or oil-lamps, 'oos we're confined there, aud it's
very unhealthy. It's very warm as it is, and
yea most huve a eye like a hawk to watcli it,
or it won't throw the shadows. A brilliant
light and a clean sheet is a great attraction,
md it's the attraction is everything. In the
coorse of the evening we'll bum six penny
eaodles ; we generally use the patent one, 'cos
it tbrovs ft clear light. We cut them in half.
Vk'hm we use the others I have to keep a
look^mt, and teU my mate to snuff the can-
dles when the shadows get dim. I usually
■Vi* Snuff the eandles!' oat loud, because
that's a word for the outside and the inside
too, 'oos it let the company know it isn't all
over, aud leads them to expect another scene
or two."
Exhibitor op Mechanical Figures.
*' I AM the only man in London — and in
England, I think — ^who is exhibiting the figuer
of meehanique ; that is to say, leetle figuers,
that move their limbs by wheels and springs,
as if they was de living crotures. I am a
native of Parma in Italy, where I was bom ;
that is, you understand, I was bom in the
Duchy of Pamift, not in the town of Forma —
in the campagne, where my father is a fanner ;
not a large fanner, but a little famior, with
just enough land for living. I used to work
for my father in his fields. I was married
when I have 20 years of age, and I have a
cliild a;?ed U) years. I have only 30 years of
n^'o, thougli 1 have tho air of 40. Pardon , Mon-
sieur ! all my friends soy I have tho air of
40, and you say that to make me pleasure.
" When I am with my father, I save up all
the money that I can, for there is very leetlo
business to be done in the campagnc of Parma,
and I determine myself to come to Londres,
where there is affair to be done. I like Londres
much better than the campagne of Parma,
because there is so much aflairs to be done. I
save uj) all my money. I become very econo-
mique. I live f»f very leetle, and when I havo
a leetle money, I say adieu to my father and I
commence my voyages.
** At Paris I buy a box of music. They ore
mode at tJenfeve these box of music. When I
come to Lontlrcs, I go to the public-hoase —
the palois de gin, you understand — and there
I show my box of music — yes, musical box you
call it — and when I get some money I live
very economiquc, and then when it become
moire money I buy another machine, which I
buy in Paris. It was a box of music, and on
the tf»p it had leetle figuers, which do move
their eyes and their limbs when I mounts tho
spring with the key. And then there is music
inside the box at the some time. I have three
leetle figuers to this box: one was Jmlith
cutting the head of the infidel chief — what
you call him? — Holeferones. She lift her
arm witli the sword, and she roll her eyes, and
then the other hand is on his head, which it
lifts. It does this all the time the music play,
until I put on another figuer of the soldat
which mounts the guoni — yes, which is on
duty. The soldat goes to sleep, and his head
falls on his bosom. Then he wake aj;ain and
lift his lance and roll his eyes. Then he goes
to sleep again, so long until I put on the other
figuer of the lady with the plate in the hand,
and she make salutation to the company for to
ask some money, and she continue to do this
so long as anybody givo her money. All the
time the music in the box continues to play.
** I take a great quantity of money irith these
78
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
figaers, 3«. a-day, and I live veiy ^conomiqae
imdl I pat aside a sum large enough to buj
the flgners which I exhibit now.
^ Mj most aged child is at Parma, with my
father in the campagne, but my wife and my
other child, which has only 18 months of age,
are with me in Londres.
" It is two months since I have my new
figuers. I did have them sent from Germany
to me. They have cost a great deal of money
to me ; as much as 85/. without duty. They
have been made in Gerraanyi and are very
clever figures. I wiQ show them to you. They
perform on the round table, which must be
level or they will not turn round. This is the
Imp^ratrice of the French — Eugenie — at
least I call her so, for it is not like her, because
her cheveleure is not arranged in the style of
the Imp^atrice. The infants like better to
see the Imphtttrice than a common lady, that
is why I caJl her the Imperatrice. She holds
one arm in the air, and you will see she turns
round like a person waltzing. The noise you
hear is from the wheels of the m6chanique,
which is under her petticoats. You shall notice
her eyes do move as she waltz. The next
figure is the carnage of the Emperor of the
French, with tiie Queen and Prince Albert and
the King de Sardaigne inside. It will run
round the table, and Uie horses wHL move as if
they gallop. It is a very clever mtehaniqne.
I attache this wire from Uie front wheel to the
centre of the table, or it would not make the
round of the table, but it would run off the
side and break itself. My most clever m^-
chanique is the elephant It does move its
trunk, and its tail, and its legs, as if walking,
and all the time it roll its eyes from side to
side like a real elephant It is the cleverest
elephant of m^dianique in the world. The
leetle Indian on the neck, who is the driver,
lift his arm, and in the pavilion on the back
the chieftain of the Indians lift his bow and
arrow to take aim, and put it down again.
Thatmtehanique cost me very much money.
The elephant is worth much more than the
Imperatrice of the French. I could buy two —
three — Imperatrice for my elephant I would
like sooner lose the Imperatrice than any
malheur arrive to my elephant There are
plenty more Imperatrice, but the elephant is
veiy rare. I have also a figuer of Tyrolese
peasant She go round the table a short dis-
tance and then turn, like a dancer. I mu^t
get her repaired. She is so weak in her wheels
and springs, which wind up under her petticoats,
like the Imperatrice. She has been cleaned
twice, and yet her m^chanique is very bad.
Oh, I have oiled her ; but it is no good, she
must be taken to pieces.
*• When I sent to Germany to get these
mechanique made for me, I told the mechan-
ician what I desired, and he made them for
me. I invented the figuers out of my own
head, and he did the mechanique. I have
voyaged in Holland, and there I see some
mechanique, and I noticed them, and then I
gave the order to do so and so. My elephant
is the best of my leetle figures ; there is more
complication.
*' I first come to England eighteen years a-
go, before I was married, and I stop here
seven years ; then I go back again to Parma,
and then I come back again to England four
years ago, and here I stop ever since.
" I exhibit my leetle figiures in the street
The leetle children like to see my figuers me-
chanique dance round the table, and the car-
riage, with the horses which gallop ; but over
all they like my elephant, with the trunk
which curls up in front, like those in the
Jardin des Plantes, or what you call it
Zoological Gardens.
♦* When I am in the street I have two men
beside myself, one plays the organ, and the
other carry the box with the mechanique fi-
guers inside, and I carry the table. The box
with the mechanique is in weight about 80 lbs.
English, and there are straps at the back for
the arms to go through. It is as large as a
chest of drawers, for the leetle figures are
eighteen inches high, and each has a com-
partment to itself. I pay my men II. a-month,
besides lodge, clean, and grub him.
" The organ for the music is mine. I have
another organ, with a horse to draw it, which
I want to sell; for the horse, and ihe two
men to play it, destroy all the profits.
" When I make my figuers to play in the
street I must make the table levd, for they
will not mount up a hill, because the mecha-
nique is not sufficiently strong for that I go
to the West-end to show my leetle figures to
the genUemans and ladies, and their flunilies ;
and I go to the East-end to the families of tho
work-people. I also go to Bzixton and Hox-
ton, where they are severe for religion. They
like my figures because they are moral, and
their children can see them without sinning.
But everywhere my figures have much suc-
cess. Of all the places, I prefer, rather, Re«
gent-street, and there I go to the leetle streets,
in the comers, close by the big street If I
calcule how much money I receive for all
the year, — but I have only had them two
months, — it is six shillings by day regularly.
Sometime I take ten shillings, and some*
times four shillings, but it settles itself to six
shillings a-day. After paying for my men, and
to clean, lodge, and grub them, I have three
shillings for myself.
" In wet weather, when it makes rain, or
when thero is fog, I cannot quit my house to
show my figures, for the humidity attack the
springs and wheels of the mechanique : be-
sides, when it falls rain the dresses of my
figuers are spoiled ; and the robes of the Im-
peratrice and the Tyrolese peasant are of
silk and velvet bodies, with spangles, and
they soon spoil. They cost me much money
to repair their springs, — never less than eight
shillings for each time : my peasant has beex>
STBEET TELESCOPE EXHIBITOK.
[Fnm a PhdograpK.}
LOyDOy LABOUR AND TJTE LONDON POOM.
70
•mnged twiee in her ajirings. It ttas a watoh-
inftk<»r who arranged her, and he had to take
oU lier inside out ; and yon know what those
kind of pe^lo charge for their time.
•• Somi^times, when I am out with my fi-
(■ners, the ladies ask me to perform my iipruers
before their windows, to show them to their
/aniilies. The leetle children look throuprh
rhe window, and then they cannot hear the
movemont of the mechaniquc, and the ti^^ers
Ifiok like living. AVhen the organ pluy a
valtz to the Imperatrice, he has to turn the
banUe quick at the commencement, wlien tho
!^nicr is strong in the meclianique, find slu.^
tnm quick ; and to make the music slow when
she turn less often, when the spring get weak
« the end. This makes it have the look of
being true to one living,^ as if she danced to
the music, although the organ play to her
dancing. I always mount the Bgures with
ihe key myself.
*• I have never performed to a school of young
schrilrirs, but I have visited evening-parties of
children with my m^chanique. For that tliey
frive me sometimes 8*., sometimes 10»., just as
they are generous. My mcchanique require
nearly one hour to see them to perfection.
The imperatrice of the French is what they
admire more than the paysanne of Tyrol. The
dn.'^s of the Imperatrice has a long white veil
iiehin<l her hairs, but her costume is not so
st.'ignre as the peasant's, for she has no
spaiiirles ; but they like to see tlie Imperatrice
oi the French, and they excuse her toilet be-
crtuse slie is noble. My elephant is the greatest
(Ir'ji/ht for them, because it is more compli-
cated in its mechanique. I have always to
mount with the key the springs in its inside
at I<«ast three times before they are fatigued
with admiring it.
** I never perform in the streets during the
T\\q\\t, because the eir is damp, and it causes
injares to my mechauique ; besides, I must
have lights to show off the costume of my
fismers, and my table is not large enough.
*• It is not only the leetle children tiat ad-
mire my mechauique, but pci-sons of a ripe
i2ti. I often have gentlemen nnd ladies stand
r'»m»d my table, and tlu-y say * Very clever ! * to
see the lady flguors valtz, but pbove all when
TUT elephant lift his trunk. The leetle children
viil follow me a long way to see my figuers,
for they know we cannot carry the box far
without exhibiting, on account of its weight.
Bni my table is too hicfh for them, unless they
are at a distance to see tlie figuers perform. If
my table was not 'high, the leetle children
Tfoold want to take hold of my figuers. I
always cany a small stick with me ; and when
the leetle children, who are being carried by
ether leetle children, put their hand to my
ftsnen, I touch them with stick, not for to hurt
ihem, but to make them take their hand away
uid prevent them from doing hurt to my
luechaniqne.
''When tho costume of my Imperatrice is
destroyed by tims and wear, my wife xnalies
new clothes for her. Yes, as you say, she is
the dress-maker of the ImpeniUice of the
French, but it is not the EmpeiH>r who pays
the bill, but myself. The Iraptratrice— the
one I have, not that of tho Emperor— <ioes not
wjmt more than half a yard of silk for a petti-
coat. In the present style of fashion I make
her petticoat very large and fUll, not for the
style, but to hido the mcchanifiue in her in-
side."
The Trlbscope Exhibitor.
" It must bo aboat eight years since I first
exhibit^>d the telescope. I have three tele-
scopes now, and their powers vary firom about
36 to 300. The instruments of the higher
power are seldom used in the streets, because
the velocity of tlie planets is so great that
they almost escapt? the eye before it can fix it.
The opening is so very small, that though
I can pass my eye on a star in a minute, an
ordiiiarj' observer would have the orb pass
away before he could accustom his eye to the
in««trument. High power is all very well for
si^parating stars, nnd so forth ; but I'm like
Dr. Kitchener, I prefer a low power for street
ptirposes. A street-passer likes to se<' plenty
of margin n»und a star. If it fills \\\i tho
opj'ning he don't like it.
" My business is a tailor. I follow that
business now. The exhibiting don't interfere
with my trade. I work by day at tailoring,
and thru, at this tim<»i of the year (ilHth Oct.
ISriO), I go out with tho instrument about six
o'clock. You see I can, with a low powrr,
see Jupiter rise. It is visi)»le at about half-
past five, but it gets above the horizon, out of
the smoke, about a quarter past six. Saturn
rises about ten.
" From a boy I was fond of philosophical
instruments. I was left an orphan when I was
ten years of afje ; indeed, I haven't a relation
in the world that I'm aware of, only excepting
my wife's family. My mother died the same
year as the Princes Charlotte (1818) for I can
remember her being in mourning for Iht.
My name is a very peculiar one — ^it is Tregent.
This will show yt)u that it is. I some time
ago advertised an instrument for sale, and I
had a letter ftT»m gentleman li^-ing in Liver-
pool. He said that he was sitting down to
lunch and he took up the paper, and cried
out, ' Oood God ! here's my name.' He sent
for paper and i)ens and wrote off at once. He
asked whether I was a relation of Tregent,
the great chronometer maker. He said he
always thought he was the only Tregent in
England. He said he was a bachelor, and
hoped I was too.* Perhaps he wanted the
name to die out. His father, he told me,
kept a paper-mill. We corresponded a long
time, till I was tired, and then one day a fViend
of mine said, * liet me write to him, and I'll
tell him that if he wants any more informa-
ation he must pay your expenses down to
eo
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
liyerpool, and youll pay him a yisit This
letter was sent, and by and by comes an
answer, telling me that I was no gentleman
to make such a proposition, and then the
matter dropped.
^ When I was six years old I was brought
up to tailoring. 1 was kept very close to
work — always on the board, working. I even
took my meals there. I don't consider it
was hard, for it was done for my own benefit.
If there was no work going on I used to be
made to learn verses out of the Bible. I
highly respected my master, for I consider
this was done for my benefit. He died in
the country, and I was sorry for it ; for if I
hiffiL known it, I would have gone anywhere
to see him buried — ay, even if it had been a
hundred miles oflf. I stopped with this party
till I was ten years old.
" The next party I was with I was 'prenticed
to, but he failed when I had been with him
tfajree or four years, and then I had more the
keeping of him than he of me ; I had that
resolve in me even at that young age.
'* After I finished my 'prentice articles I
went with my society card on the tramp. I
went all through Yorkshire, going to the
tailors' houses of call, where the dubs are
held, and a certain sum of money subscribed
weekly, to relieve what are called tramps. In
some towns I worked for months — such as
Leeds. What is called * a tramp ' by tailors,
means a man searching for work about the
country. After I got back to London I went
to my trade again, and I was particularly
fortunate in getting good situations. When-
ever I was out of work I'd start off to the
country again. I was three years in Brighton,
doing well, and I had six men under me.
" It's about eight years ago that I first
exhibited in the streets. It was through a
Mend of mine that I did this. Me and my
wife was at Oreenwich-hill one Sunday. I
was looking through a pocket-telescope of
mine, and he says, ' Look through mine.' I
did so, and it was a very good one ; and then
he says, *• Ah, you should see one I've got
at home ; it's an astronomical one, and this
is terrestrial.' I did so, and went and saw
it. The first planet I saw was Venus. She
was in her horns then, like the moon.
She exhibits the same phases as the moon,
as does also Mercury; sometimes horns,
sometimes half a sphere, and so on; but
they're the only two planets that's known
that does so. When I saw this, I said, ' Well,
I must have something of this sort' I went
to a telescope^maker up at Islington, and I
made a bargain with him, and he was to make
me a day-and-night telescope for five suits of
clothes. Well, I bought the doth, and raised
all the money to complete my part of the
contract, and then, when the telescope was
finished, it wasnt worth a d . You might
as well have looked through a blacking-botde.
When I told him of it he said he couldn't
help it It was worth something to look aV
but not to look through. I pawned it for 151.
and sold the ticket for 5/. The gentleman who
bought it was highly satisfied with it till he
found it out I took this one out in the
streets to exhibit with, but it was quite use-
less, and showed nothing ; you could see the
planetary bodies, but it defined nothing. The
stars was all manner of colours and forics.
The bodies look just like a drawing in chalk
smudged out The people who looked through
complained, and wouldn't come and look again,
and that's why I got rid of it
" The next telescope I had made was by the
manufacturer who made the one my friend
first showed me. That maker has taken some
hundred of pounds of me since then ; indeed,
I*ve had deven five or six feet telescopes of him,
and his name is' Mr. Mull« of 13 Albion-place,
Clerkenwdl, and the value of each of the
object-glasses was, on the average, 30/., though
he charged mo only trade-price, so I got them
for less.
" The first telescope that was of any good
that I exhibited with in the streets was worth
to me 26/. If you was to go to DoUond he
would have charged 103/. on a common tripod
stand. I had it done under my own direc-
tion, and by working myself at it, I got it very
cheap. It wasn't good enough for me, so I
got rid of it I've got so mce about object
glasses and their distinct vision, and the power
Uiey bear, that I have never rested content
until I have a telescope that would suit ih^
first astronomer.
" Tve got one now that will bear a magni-
fying power 300 times, and has an object-glass
4} inches diameter, with a focal length of
5 feet 6 inches. The stand is made of about
250 pieces of brass-work, and has ratchet
action, with vertical and horizontal move-
ment. It cost me 80/. and Ross, Featherstone-
buildings, would charge 250/. for it I'm so ini-
tiated into the sort of thing, that I generally
get all my patterns made, and then I get the
castings made, and then have them x>oli8hed.
The price of the object-glass is 30/. I'm
going to take that one out next week. It will
weigh about 1| cwt. My present one is a
very fine instrument indeed. I've nothing but
what is excellent You can see Jupiter and
his sateUites, and Saturn and his bdt This
is a test for it Supposing I want to see
Polaris — that's the smaU star that revolves
once in 180 years round the pole. It isn't
the pole star. It isn't visible to the naked
eye. It's one of the tests for a tdescope. My
instrument gives it as small as a pin's point
There's no magnifying power with a telescope
upon stars. Of course they make them more
brilliant, and give some that are not visible to
the naked eye, for hundreds and thousands will
pass through the field in about an hour. They
also separate double stars, and penetrate into
space, nebula, and so on ; but they don't increase
the size of stars, for the distance is too great
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
HI
^^IVe woriMd about five years with this
kat one tluit Pve now. It weighs, with the
btand, about 1 cwt, and I have to get some-
body to help me along with it One of my
boys in general goes along with mc.
*" It depends greatly upon the weather as
to what business I do. I've known the moon
for a month not to be yisible for twenty days
oat of the lunation. I've known that for three
moons together, the atmosphere is so bad
in London. When I do get a good night
I have taken 3tVs. ; but then I've taken out
two instruments, and my boy has minded
ooe. I only charge a penny a pec-p. Satur-
dsTs, and Mondays, and Sundays, are the
best nights in my neighbourhood, and tlien I
can mostly reckon on taking 20«. The other
nights it may be 7s. or 8s., or even only 2j. ijd,
S<imetimes I put up the instrument when it's
vviy ftne, and then it'll como cloudy, and I
have to take it down again and go home.
Taking the year round, I should think I make
lay. a-year by the telescope. You see my
buHine^i, as a tailor, keeps me in of a day, or
I might {JTO out in the day and show the sun.
Nr»w to-day the sun was very fine, and the
spots showed remarkably well, and if I'd been
oat I might have done well. I sold an in-
strument of mine once to a fireman who had
nothing to do in the day, and thought he
could make some money exhibiting the tele-
scope. He made 8«. or lOs. of an afternoon
on Blackfriar's-bridge, showing the dome of
Su Paul's at the time they were repairing it.
** When the instrument is equatoreally
mounted and set to time, you can pick out
the stars in the day-time, and they look like
Uack specs. I could show them.
** People can't stop looking through the
telescope for long at a time, because the
object IS soon out of the field, because of the
Vflocity of the earth's motion and the rapidity
at which the planets travel round the sun.
Jnpitcr, for instance, 2(5,000 n^esan hour, and
Sat am 29,000, soon removes tliem from the
flelil of tlie telescope. I have to adjust the
telescope before each person looks Uirough.
It has, I fancy, hurt my eyes very much. My
eyesight has got very weak through looking
at the moon, for on a brilliant night it's like a
plate of silver, and dazzles. It makes a great
impression on the retina of the eye. I've
Ken when looking through the telescope a
Uack sx>ec, just as if you had dropped a blot of
ink on a piece of paper. I've often had
dancing lights before my eyes, too— very often.
I find a homceopathic globule of belladonna
Tny excellent for that
** When I exhibit, I in general give a short
lecture ^whilst they are looking through.
When I* am not busy I make them give me a
description, for this reason : others are listen-
ing, and they would sooner take the word of
the observer than mine. Suppose I'm ex-
hibiting Jupiter, and I want to draw cus-
tomers^ I'll say, ' How many moons do you see? '
They'll answer, ' Three on the right, and one on
the left,' as they may be at that time. Periiaps
a rough standing by will say, ' Three moons !
that's a lie ! there's only one, everybody
knows.' Then, when they hear the observer
state what lie sees, they'll want to have a peep.
" When I'm busy, I do a lecture like this.
We'll suppose I'm exhibiting Saturn. Perhaps
wo had better begin with Jupiter, for the orbit
of Saturn's satellites is so extensive that you
can never see them all without shifting the
glass : indeed it's only in very fine climates,
such as Cincinnati, where the eight may be
observed, and indeed up to a late period it was
believed there were only seven.
" When the observer sees Jupiter, I begin :
* Do you see the planet, sir? * Yes,' * I intro-
duce to you Jupiter with all his four satellites.
It is distant 600 millions of miles irom the
sun, and its diameter is about 7000 miles. It
travels round the sun at about 27,000 miles an
hour, and its orbit is over four years, and of
course its seasons are four times the length of
oiurs, the summer lasting for a year instead of
three months.' One night an Irishman, who
was quite the gentleman, came to me rather
groggy» *nd he says, — ' Old boy, what are you
looMng at?* * Jupiter,' says I. 'What's that?*
says he. ' A planet you may call it, sir.' says
I ; *and the price is one penny.' He paid me
and had a look, and then ho cries out, * What
a deception is this! By J it's a moon, and
you cidl it a star ! ' ' There are four moons,'
said I. ' You're another,' said he ; * there's a
moon and four stars. You ought to be took
up for deception.' After a time ho had
another look, and then he was very pleased,
and would bring out gin from, a neighbouring
public-house, and if he brought one, he
brought seven.
** Another time, a man was looking through;
and I had a tripod stand then, and one of tho
legs was out, and he pushed the tube and
down it came right in his eye. He gave a
scream and shouted out, ' My God ! there's a
star hit me slap in the eye I '
** Another night an old woman came up to
me, and she says, ' God bless ^ou, sir ; I'm so
glad to see you. I've been lookmg for you ever
such a time. You charge a penny, don't you?
I'm a charwoman, sir, and would you believe
it, I've never had a penny to spare. What are
you looking at ? The moon ? Well, I must
see it' I told her she should see it for
nothing, and up she mounted the steps. She
was a heavy lusty woman, and I had to shove
her up with my shoulder to get up the steps.
When she saw the moon she kept on saying,
'Oh, that's beautiful! well, it is beautiftd!
And that's the moon, is it? Now, do tell me
all about it' I told her all about Mount
Tycho, and about the light of the sun being
seen on the mountain tops, and so on. When
she'd looked for a time, she said, * WeU, your
instrument is a finer one than my masters,
but it don't show so much as his, for he says
62
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON fOOM*
he can see the men fighting in iC This made
me Uugh so, I veiy nearly let her tumble by
taking my ehonlder away from mider her.
But when she came down the steps, she said
something quits moved me. She threw her
hands up and eried, ' If this moon is so bean-
tiftil ana woaderfol, what must that God be
like who made it ? ' And off she went. It was
yezy fine, waan't it?
'* Sometimes when I'm exhibiting there is
quite a crowd eoUeets. I've seen them
sitting down on the curb smoking and drinking,
whilst they are waiting for their turns to have
a peep. They'll send to the public-house for
beer, and then they'll stop for hours. Indeed,
I'tc had my business quite interfered with by
the mob, for they don't go away after having
their look. I seldom stop out sdfter X^ o'clock
at night.
" Sometimes when I have been exhibiting,
the parties have ssid it was all nonsense and
adcccption^ for the stars was pointed on
the gloHs. If the party has been anything
agreeable, I've taken the trouble to persuade|
him. I've, for instance, placed tlie star on the
very edge of the glass, and then they've
seen it travel right across the field ; and as I've
told them, if it was painted it couldn't move
and disappear from the lens.
^ Most of tlie spectators go away quite sur-
prised and impressed ^Hth what they have
seen. Some will thank me a dozen times over.
Some will say, * Well, my penny is well laid
out I shouldn't have credited it with my own
eyes.' Others, but there are very few of them,
won't believe wlien they have looked. Some,
when I can see the moon on their eye as they
look in, swear Uiey don't see it. Those I let
go on and don't take their money, for the
penny is no object. When I tell the people
what the wonders of the heavens are, and how
each of these planets is a world, tJicy go away
wonderfully grateful and impresse^l.
*'I went down to PortKmouth with my
telescope at the time thb fleet sailed under Sir
Charles Napier, and the Queen led them out
in her yuclit. I took a great deal of money
tlicre. X didn't exhibit in the day-time: I
didn't trouble myself. I took two guineas
showing the yacht the day she sailed, and at
night with the moon. The other ni^ts, with
the moon and planets only, I took from 12«. to
14«. I refoscd 1&«. for one hour, for this
reason. A lady sent her Ber>'ant to ask me to
go to her house, and my price is one guinea
for to go out, whether for an hour, or two, or
three ; but she first oiEered me I0«., and then
the next night Vbs. Then I found I should
have to carry my instrument, weighing one
cwt., two miles into the county', and up hill all
the way ; so, as I was sure of taldng more than
10«. where I was, I wouldn't for an extra
shilling give myself the labour. I took I2f . M.
as it was. At Portsmouth a couple of sailors
came up, and one had a look, and the other
said * What is there to see ? ' X told him the
moon, and he asked the prioe. When I said
*• One penny,' he says, * X vnt got a penny, but
hare's three hali^enoe, if that's the same to
you ; ' and he gives it, and when X expected he
was about to peep, he turns round and siqrs,
' I'll be smothereid if I'm going to look down
that gallows long chimney I YoaVe got your
money, and that's all your business.' So you see
there are some people who are quite iudiflBBient
to sdentifio exhibitions.
** There are, to the best of my knowledge,
about four men besides myself^ going about
with telescopes. X dont know of any more.
Of Uiese there's only one of any account.
I've seen through them all, so I may safely s^y
it. I consider mine the best in London ex-
hibiting. Mine is a very expensive instrument.
Everything depends upon the object-glass.
There's glasses on some which have been
thrown aodo as valueless, and may have been
bouglit fbr two or tlireo pounds.
'* The capital required to start a telescope in
the streets nil depends upon the quantity of
the object-glass, from 3/. to 00/. for the ol^jeoU
glass alone.
** Nobody, who is not seqiiainted with
telescopes, knows the value of object-glasses.
I've known this offer to be made — that the
'object-glass should be placed in one seals
and gold in the other to weigh it down, and
then they wouldn't. The rough glass from
Birmingliam ^before it is worked — only
12 inches in diameter, will cost 06/. Ghonoe,
at Birmingham, is the principal maker of the
crown and flint fbr optical purposes. The
Swiss used formerly to be the only makers of
optical metal of any account, and now Bir-
mingham has knocked them out of the field :
indeed tliey have got the Swiss woridng for
them at Chance's.
"You may take a couple of plates of the
rough glass to persons ignorant of their value,
and they are only twelve inches in diameter,
and he would tl^ink one shilling dear fbr them,
for they only look like the bits you see in the
streets to let hght through the pavement.
These glasses are half flint and half crown, the
flint for the concave, and the crown fbr the con-
vex side. Their beauty consists in their being
pure metal and quite transparent, and not
stringy. Under the high magnifying power
we use you see this directly, and it makes the
object smudgy and distorts the vision.
*' After getting the rough metal it takes
years to fimsh tlie olject-glass. Thoy polish
it with satin and putty. The c<»vex has to be
done so correctly, that if the lens is the
lOOth part of an inch out its value is destroyed.
**The well-known object-glass which was
shown in the Great Exhibition of 1851, was in
Mr. Boss's hands (of Featherstone-buildings,
Holbom,) for four years befbrs it was finished.
It was very good, and done him great credit.
He is supposed to have lost by the job, for the
price is all eat up by wages pretty near.
" The observatory on Wandsworth-oommon
LOSLON LABOUR AXD THE LOXDON POOR.
83
is a complete fiBdliire, owing to the object-glass
being A bed one. It belongs to tlie Kev. Mr.
Czagg. The tube is 72 feet long, I believe,
and shaped like a dgar, bulging at the sides.
He wanted to have a new object-glass put in,
and what do yoa think they asked him at
Binnisgham for the rough metal alone? —
2Q0QLI It id 24 inches in diameter. Mr.
Sots asks 6000/., I was told, to make a now
one — finished for him.
" The making of objeet-glas.<)e9 is dreadfVil
and tedious labour. Men havo been known
to go and throw their heads under waggon
wheelst and have them smashed, from being
DBgida]^ worn out with working an object-
^flos, and not being able to get the convex
light. I was told by a party that one object-
l^ass was in hand for 14 years.
** The night of the eclipse of the moon, (the
13th October, 1850,) when it was so well seen
in London, I took 1/. Id. at Id. each. I
night as well have took 21. by charging 2d.y
bat being so well known then 1 didL't moke
no extra charge. They were forty deep, for
eveiybody wished to see. I had to put two
lads under the stand to prevent their being
trod to death. They had to stay there for two
houra before they could get a peep, and bo
indeed had many others to do the same. A
fiiend of mine lUdn't look at all, for I couldn't
get him near. They kept calling to the one
wAing through the tube, ' Now, tlien, make
you there.' They nearly fought for
their turns. They got pushing and fight-
ing, one cxying, * I was first,' and, * Now it's
my torn.* I was glad when it was over, I can
aaaue you. The buttons to my braces were
dn^ed off my bock by the pressure behind,
and! had to hold up my breeches with my
hand. The eclipse lasted firom 21 minutes
past 0 to 25 minutes past 13, and in that time
247 persons hod a peep. The police were
then to keep order, but they didn't interfere
with me. They are generally very good to
me, and they seem toUiink that my exhibition
improrres the minds of the public, and so pro-
tect me.
*■ When I went to Portsmouth, I applied to
Mr. Uyera the goldsmith, a very opulent and
zieh man there, and chairman of the Espla-
nade Committee at Southsea, and he instantly
pve me pexmission to place my stand there.
Likewise the mayor and magistrates of Ports-
Aoathf to exhibit in the streets."
EXHZBITOB OF THB MiCBOSCOFE.
" I T-rT^TPr»* with a microscope that I wouldn't
take fifty guineas for, because it suits my pur-
pQtt, and it is of the finest quality. I earn
ay living with it. If I were to sell it, it
wonldn^t fetch more than 15^ It was presented
tome by n^ dear sister, who went to America
and died there. I'll show you that it is a
TalnaUe instrument. I'll tell you that one of
the best lens-makers in the trade looked
through it, and so he said, ' I think I con im-
prove it for you ;' and he made me a present of
a lens, of extreme high power, and the largest
aperture of Diagnilying power that has ever
been exhibited. I didnt know him at the
time. He did it by kindness. Ho said, after
looking through, * It's very good for what it
professes, but I'll make you a present of a lens
made out of the best Swiss metal.' And he
did so from the interest he felt in seeing such
kinds of exhibitions in the streets. With the
glass he gave me I can see oheese-mites as
distinctly as possible, with their eight legs and
transparent bodies, and heads shai>ed like a
hedgehog's. I see their jaw moving as they eat
their food, and can see them lay their eggs,
which are as perfect as any fowl's, but of a
bright bUie colour ; and I can also see them
perform the duties of nature. I cnn also see
them carr>' their youn^ on their bocks, showing
that they have afiection for their ol&pring.
They lay their eggs through their ribs, and
you can tell when they are going to lay for
tliere is a bulging out just by the hips. They
don't sit on their eggs, but they roll them
about in action till they bring forth their ob-
ject. A million of these mites can walk across
a flea's bock, for by Lanlner's micrometer the
surface of a flea's back measures ^4 inches fVom
the proboscis to the iwstcrior. The micrometer
is an instrument used for determining micro-
I scopic power, and it is all graduated to a scale.
By Lanlner's micrometer the mite looks about
the size of a large black-beetle, and then it is
magnified 100,000 times. This will give yoa
some idea of the powor and value of my in-
strument. Three hundred gentlemen have
\iewed through it in one week, and each one
delighti'd ; so much so, that many have given
double the money I have asked (which was a
penny), suc% was the satisfaction my instru-
ment gave.
" ^ly father was a minister and local
preacher in the Wesleyan Methodists. He
died, poor fellow, at 27 years of age, therefore
I never had an opportunity of knowing him.
Ho was a boot and shoe maker. Such was the
talent which he possessed, that, had it not
been for his being lamed of one foot (from a
fall off a horse), he would have been made a
travelling minister. He was a wonderful
clever man, and begun preaching when he was
21. Ho was the minister who nreached on the
occasion of laying the foundation-stone of
Hoxton Chapel, and he drew thousands of
people. I was only two years old when he died,
and my mother was left with five of us to bring
up. She was a visitor of the sick and thu
dying for the Strangers* Benevolent Fund,
and much respected for her labours. After
my father's death she was enabled to support
her family of one son and four daughters by
shoe-binding. She was married twice after my
father's death, but she married persons of
quite opposite principles and opinions to her
own, and slie was not comfortable with them.
84
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
but left them, and always found shelter under
her son's roof^ where she died triumphantly
'* I was apprenticed when I was 13 years of
age to a shoemaker, who was a profound
philosopher, and very fond of making experi.
ments and of lecturing on various branches of
science. I could produce bills — I have them at
home— such as that at the Friar's-mount
Sunday-school, some six or seven years ago,
where it states that William Knock, minister
and lecturer, will lecture on zoology and
natural histoiy. He's about 70 now. Elec-
tricity is his favourite science. Whilst I was
his apprentice, he had an observatory built at
the top of his house in Underwood-street,
Spitaliields, for the purpose of taking astro-
nomical observations. My being in his house,
and seeing him so busy with his instruments,
gave me a great taste for science. I was his
assistant when he wont lecturing. I was i^.
prenticed with him for five years. He was a
kind and good master, and very affectionate.
He encouraged mo in my scientific studies, and
gave me access to his library, which was im-
mense, and consisted of 3000 volumes.
Amongst other employment I used to copy
out sermons for him, and he gave me a penny
each, which by saving up enabled me to buy a
wateh of him for 5/. 5«. He was a shoemaker
and manufacturer of ladies and children's
boots and shoes, so that he might have made
from his 2/. to 3/. a-week, for he was not a
Journeyman, but an employer.
" Afier I was out of my time I went to Mr.
Children, a bootmaker of Bethnal-green-road,
well known in that locality. My master had
not sufficient employment for me. One night
this Mr. Children went to hear a lecture on
astronomy by Dr. Bird, and when he came
home he was so delighted with what he had
seen, that he began telling his wife all about
it. He said, * I cannot better explain to you
the solar system, than with a mop,' and he
took the mop and dipped it into a pail of water,
and began to twirl it round in the air, till the
wet flew off it Then he said, * This mop is
the sun, and the spiral motion of the water
^ves the revolutions of tlie planets in their
orbits.' Then, after a time, ho criod out, * If
this Dr. Bird can do this, why shouldn't I?'
He threw over his business directly, to carry
out the grand object of his mind. He was
making from 3/. to 4/. a-week, and his wife
said, * Robert you're mad ! ' He asked me if I
knew anything of astronomy, and I said, * Sir,
my old master was an astronomer and philo-
sopher.' Then I got books for him, and I
taught him all I knew of the science of
astronomy. Then he got a magic-lantern
with astronomical slides. The bull's-eye was
six inches in diameter, so they were veiy
large, so that they gave a fi^^ure of twelve feet
For the signs of the zodiac he had twelve
separate small lanterns, with the large one in
the centre to show the diverging rays of the
sun's light He began with many difficulties in
his way, for he was a very illiterate man, and had
a vast deal to contend with, but he succeeded
through all. He wrote to his father and got
500/., which was his share of the property whieh
would have been left him on his parent's
death. At his first lecture he made many mi^
takes, such as, * Now, gentlemen, I shall pre-
sent to your notice the amatemation$^' eX whieh
expression the company cried, * Hear, hear,*
and one said, * We are all in a constematioQ
here, for your lamp wants oil.* Yet he faeed
all this out I was his assistant I taught
him ever3rthing. When I told him of his mis-
take he'd say, * Never mind, I'll overcome iJl
that' He accumulated the vast sum of OOOCK.
by lecturing, and became a most popular man.
He educated himself, and became qualified.
When, he went into the country he had Ardi-
bishops and Bishops, and the highest of the
clergy, to give their sanction and become
patrons of bis lectures. He's now in America,
and become a great farmer.
*' After I left Mr. Children, I connected my-
self with a Young Men's Improvement Meet-
ing. Previous to that, I had founded a Simdaj-
school in the New Kent-road. Deverell-street
Sabbath-schools were founded by me, and I
was for fourteen years manager of it, as well as
performer of the funeral service in that place;
for there was a chapel, and burying, groimd
and vaults, attached to the schools, nod I be-
came the officiating minister for the f^eral
service. Three thousand children have been
educated at these schools, and for fourteen
years I lectured to them every Sunday on
religious subjects. With the tutors and the
eldest scholars I formed a Young Men's Im-
provement Meeting. I became the president
of that meeting, and their lecturer. I leetnved
on the following subjects, — Natural Hista^Ti
Electricity, Astronomy, and Phrenology.
** At this time I was a mnst^r-shoemaker,
and doing a business of fifty guineas a>week,
of which ten were profit I built large work-
shops at the back of my house, which cost ma
300/. Unfortunately, I lent my name to a
friend for a very large amount, and became
involved in his difficidties, and then necesdtj
compelled me to have recourse to stzeei*
exhibitions for a living. When I was in
affluent circumstances I had a libnuy of 300
volumes, on scientific subjects mostly, and frnm
them I have gleaned sufficient information to
qualify me for streetexhibition, and thereby
enable me to earn more money than mosS
individuals in such circumstances.
" I began my street-life with exhibiting a
telescope, and here is the origin of my dcang
ao. I had a sister living at the west-end of
the town who was a professed cook, and I used
to visit her three times a-week. One night I
saw a man in the Begent-circus exhibiting a
telescope. I went up to him, and I said, * Sir.
what is the object to-night?' And he told
me it was Jupiter. I was veiy mudi interested
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
80
tith looking at Jupiter, and I stopped with
tint man for two hours, conversing with him,
nd I saw exactly how much he took. Then
I thought, 'Why shouldn't I da this?' So I
note to my brother-in-law, and I told him this
mm was taking at the rate of Id. per minute,
•nd I offered, if he would provide me with a
ttilescope, that I should be very happy and
contented to take half of the receipts as my
shire, and g^ve him the other for the use of
his instrument. He did so, and bought a tele-
leope which cost him 14/. I took up my stand
OD LoDdon>bridge, and did very well, taking
on the average 6«. a-night I gave up the
telescope for this reason, — my brother-in-law
viB going to America, and was anxious to call
in aU his money. The telescope was sold,
tad my sister, the professed cook, fearing
thit I should be left without a means of living,
bought for me a microscope out of her own
etmings, which cost her 0/. She said to me,
* The microscope is better than the telescope,
for the nights are so uncertain.' She was
qmte right, for when the telescopes have been
idle for three months at a time, I can exhibit
mj microscope day and night She gave it
to mo as a mark of her respect. She died in
America, jast after she arrived. That instru-
nent has enabled mo to support an afflicted
nd aged mother, and to biuy her comfortably
vhen she died.
** My microscope contains six objects, which
ire piaced on a wheel at the back, which I
torn round in succession. The objects are in
cell-boxes of glass. The objects are all of ^
them fiimiliar to the public, and are as fol-
lows:—!. The flea. 2. The himian hair, or
the hair of the head. 3. A section of the old
otk tree. 4. The animalculie in water.
A. Gheose-mites. And 6. The transverse section
of eane used by schoolmasters for the coiTec-
tion of boys.
" I always take up my stand in the day-time
in Whitechapel, facing the London Hospital,
hetoff a laige open space, and favourable
Cor the solar rays — for I hght up the instru-
nent by the direct rays of the sun. At night-
tirae I am mostly to be found on Westminster-
Indge, and then I light up with the best sperm
oil ^re is. I am never interfered with by
the police ; on the contrary, they come and
have a look, and admire and recommend, such
ii the interest excited.
** The first I exhibit is the flea, and I com-
aeace a short lecture as follows : — * Gentle-
flMD,' I says, * the first object I have to present
to jour notice is that of a flea. I wish to direct
ym attention especially to the head of this
object Here you may distinctly perceive its
pmboscis or dart. It is that which perforates
the cuticle or human skin, after which the
Uood ascends by suction ih>m our body into
that of the flea. Thousands of persons in
Londoo have seen a flea, have felt a flea, but
bare never yet been able by the hiunan eye to
dbiover that instrument which made them
sensible of the flea about their person,
although they could not catch the old gen-
tleman. This flea, gentlemen, by Dr. Lard-
ner s micrometer, measures accurate iU inches
in length, and 11 across the back. My instru-
ment, mark you, being of high magnifying
power, will not show you the whole of the ob-
ject at on<!e. Mark you, gentlemen, this is not
the flea of the dog or the cat, but the human
flea, for each differ in tlieir formation, as clearly
proved by this powerful instrument. For they
all dilTor in their form and shape, and will only
feed upon tlie animal on which they are bred.
Having shown you the head and shoulders,
witli its dart, I shall now proceed to show you
the posterior view of this object, in which you
may clearly discover everj- artery, vein, muscle
and ner>-e, exact like a lobster in shape, and
quite as large as one at '2s, Od,' That pleases
them, you know; and sometimes I odd, to
amuse them, *An object of that size would
make an excellent supper for half-a-dozen per-
sons.' That pleases tliem.
" One Irishwoman, after seeing the flea,
threw up her arms and screamed out, * O
J ! and I've had hundreds of them in my
bed at once.' She got me a great many cus-
tomers from her exclamations. You see, my
lectm-e entices those Ustening to have a look.
Many listeners say, * Ain't tliat true, and phi-
losophical, and correct?" I've had many give
me Gd. and say, * Never mind the change, your
lecture is alone worth the money.'
" I'll now proceed to No. 2. * The next ob-
ject I have to present to your notice, gentle-
men, is that of the hair of the human head.
You perceive that it is nearly as large as yonder
scaffolding poles of the House of Lords.' I
say this when I am on Westminster-bridge,
because it refers to the locality, and is a
striking figure, and excites the hsteners. * But
mark you, it is not, like them, solid matter,
through which no ray of Ught con pass.' That's
where I please the gentlemen, you know, for
they say, *How philosophical!' *You can
readily perceive, mark you, that they are all
tubes, hke tubes of glass ; a proof of which
fact you have before you, from the light of the
lamp shining direct through the body of the
object, and that light direct portrayed in the
lens of your eye,called the retina, on which all
external objects are painted.' 'Beautiful!'
says a gentleman. * Now, if the hair of the
head be a hollow tube, as you perceive it is,
then what caution you ought to exercise when
you place your head in the hands of tlie hair-
dresser, by keeping your hat on. or else you
may be susceptible to catch c^ld ; for that
which we breathe, the atmosphere, passing
down these tubes, suddenly shuts to the doors,
if I may be allowed such an expression, or, in
other words, closes the pores of the skin and
thereby checks the msensible perspiration, and
colds are the result Powdering the head is
quite out of date now, but if a little was
used on those occasions referred to, cold in
60
LOSDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
the head wonld not he so frequent.' "What
do yon think of that? I never hod an indi-
vidual complain of my lecture yet.
" Now comes No. 3. * This, gentlemen, is
the brave old oak, a Rection of it not larger
than the head of a pin. Looking at it through
thifl powerful instrument, you may acctirately
perceive millions of perforations, or pores,
through which the moisture of the earth rises,
in order to aid its growth. Of all the trees of the
forest, none is so splendid as the brave old oak.
This is the tree that braves the battle and
the breeze, and is said to be in its perfcrtion
at 100 j-ears. "Who that looks at it would not
exclaim, in the language of the song, * Wood-
man, spare that tree, and cut it not down ? '
Such is the analogy existing between vegetable
and animal physiology', that a small portion of
the cuticle or human skin would present the
same appearance, for there ore millions of
pores in the human skin which a groin of
sand is said to cover ; and here are millions
of perforations through which the moisture of
the earth is said to rise to aid the growtli of
the tree. See the similitude between the
vegetable and animal physiology. Here is the
exhibition of nature — see how it surpasses
that of art. See the ladies at the Great Ex-
hibition admiring the shawls that came from
India : yet they, though truly desening, could
not compare with this bit of bark from the
brave old ouk. Here is a pattern richer and
more desening than any on any shawl, how
ever wonderful. Where is the linondraper in
this locality that can produce anything so
beautiful as that on this bit of bark ? Such
are the works of art as compared with those of
nature.'
" No. 4 is the animalculiE in water. * Gen-
tlemen, the object now before you is a drop of
water, that may be suspended on a needle's
point, teeming with miUions of linng objrcts.
This one drop of water contains mon; inhabit-
ants than the globe on which I stand. See
the velocity of their motion, the action of
their stomachs ! tho vertebraB is elegantly
marked, like the boa-constrictor in the Zoo-
logical Gardens. They are all moring with
perfect ease in this one drop, like the mighty
monsters of the vast deep.'
•' On one occasiim a gentleman from St.
Thomas's Hospital dLspute<l my statement about
it's being only one drop of water, so I said to the
gent; * If you will accompany me to some;
coffee-house tho drop of water shall be re-
moved, and perhaps what you see you may
believe/ which he did, and ho paid me 1«. for
my experiment. He told me he was a doctor,
and I told him I was surprised thot he wns
not better acquainted witii tho instrument; ior^
said I, * how can you tell the effects of inocu-
lation on the cuticle, or the disease called the
itch, unless you arc acquainted with such an
instrument?' He was quite ashamed as he
paid me for my trouble. I tell this anecdote
on the bridge, and I always conclude with,
' Now, gentlemen, whilst I was paid It. hf
the faculty for showing one object alone, I am
only charging you Irf. for the whole six.* Then
I mldrt'ss myself to the i>erBon looking into
the microscope, and say, • What do you think
of this one throp of water, sir ? ' and he says,
* Splendid !' Then I add, * Few persons would
pass and re-pass this instrument without
baring a glance into it, if th«*y knew the won-
ders I exhibit;' and tlie one looking says,
* That's true, very true.'
" The next object is the cheese-mite — No. 5.
I always begin in this way, — * Those who
are imocquaintril with tlie study of ento-
mology declai'e that these mites are beetles,
and not mites ; but could I procure a beetle
with eight legs, I should present it to the
BritLsli Museum as a ciuiosity.* This is the
way I clench up the mouths of those sceptics
who would try to ridicule me, by showing that I
am i>liilosophic. * Just look at thom. Notice,
for instance, their head, how it represents
the form of an hedg<3]»og. The bo»ly pre-
sents that of the beetle shape. They have
eight legs and eight joints. They have four
legs fonvard and four legs back ; and they can
move with the same velocity forwards as they
can back, such is their construction. They
are said to be moring with the velocity of five
hundred steps in one minute. BeadBlair^
* l*r«Jceptor,' where you may see a drawing of
the mite acciuratoly given, as well as read the
descript-'on just givt?n.' A cheesemonger in
WhrU.»chapel brouicrht mo a few of these ob-
jects for me to place in my mici-oscope. He
inrit<jd liis friends, which were tiking supper
with him, to come out and have a glan(*e at
the same objects. He gave me sixjjcnce for
exhibiting them to him, ond was highly grsd-
'fied at the sight of them. I asked him bow
he could have the; impudence to sell them for
a lady's supi>cr ut lOrf. a-ponnd. The answer
he gave me was, — * Wliat the pye cannot see
the heart never grieves.' Then I go on,—
' Whilst this lady is extending her hand to the
poor, and doing all the relief in her power,
she is slaring more liring creatures with her
jaw-bone than ever Sumson did with his.* If
it's a boy looking through. I say, ' Now, Jack,
wlien you are eating broad and cheese don*t
let it be said that you slay tho mites with the
jaw-bone of an ass. Cultivate the intellectual
and moral powers superior to the passions,
and then you will rise superior to tliat animal
in intellect.' * Good," saj's a gentleman, • good;
here's sLxpence for you;' and another savH,
* Here's twopence for you, and I'm blessed ii* I
want to see anything after hearing your lecture/
Then I continues to point out the oSfTection of the
mite for its young. * You see fathers looking
after their (laughters, and mothers after their
sons, wh«»n they are taking their walks ; and
such is their love for their young, that when
the young ones are fatigued with their journey
the parents take them up on their backs. Do
you not see it ?• And then some will say, * 111
I
LOKDOy LABOUR AND THE LONDOX POOR.
87
, life A penny to nee that;' and I'vo Imd four
poinies put in my bsnd at once to see it.
£xcitomont is everything in this world, sir.
*' Next comes the cane — No. G. * The ob-
, jwt before yon. gentlemen, is a IninsverHO
I MctioDof cane, — common cane, — Kuch, mark
I joKL AS is iiKed by Bchoolmabters fur the cor-
wet'hm of boys who neglect their tasks, or
■ pliiT ihc wag.' I make it comic, you know.
* Thi-> I coll die tree of knowledge, for it has
, diiue uuTm for to learn ns the rules of arith-
Dciio than all the vegetable kingdom com-
bintMl. To it we may attribute the rule of
three, from its influence on the mind,' —
that always canses a smiln, — 'just look at it
I lac one moment. Notice, in the !irst ]ilac(>, its
i putbrations. >Mierc the human hand has
iail(.d to construct a micromrtter for micro-
scof'icor telescopic purposes, the spider has
Init its wli in one case, and tlie cnne in the
' ochtT. Throut^h the instrumentality of its
jKTliiriilionR, w^e may accurately infer ih<5 map;-
nifnu:; jjower of oth(;r objects, slKuving the
Ihw iif iinnloin-. The perforations of thi> cnni',
apart frDm this instrument, would lutnlly adinit
a opcdlo'R point, but seem now lar«?e eiuiu^^'h
t» yoor arm to enter. This cane somewlint
npiv-si-ntA a telescopic view of the moon at
Ifae full, when in conjunction with the sun,
for in)«t4Uice. Here I could represent in-
Ttfrted rocks and mountains. You iiiny per-
ceive them yonrself, just as they would hv re-
I pttsscnted in the moon's disc through a
jiowerfnl telescope of 2.^) times, such as I have
' exbibitt^l to a thousand peraons in St. Paul's
ChurchyanL On the right of this piece of
cane, if' you are acquainted witli tlie scienee
of tt^tronomy, you may dejiicture vctv accu-
ntely Monnt Tycho, for instance, representing
abenntiful burning moimtain, like Mount Ve-
SQTins or Etany, near the fields of Naples.
Yoo might discover accurately all the divcrg-
ioj; streaks of hght emanating from the crater.
Fnxtlior on to the right you may |>erceive
MooDi St. Catherine, like the blaze of a candle
raihing through the atmosphere. On the
left yon may discover Mount Ptolemy. Such
i* aViniilar' oppearanc^ of the moon's moun-
tainous aapect. I ask you, if the school-boy had
bm an opportunity of glancing at so splendid
an object as the cane, sliould he ever be seen
to fiherl a tear at its weight ?'
•* This shows that I am scientific, and know
tklTDnoniy. The last part makes them hiujrh.
•* This is the mode in which I exhibit my in-
tuument, and such is the interest been excited
in the puhhc mind, tliat though a ])enny is
the small charge which I make, th:>t amount
bis l»een doubled and trebled by gentlemen
vfao have viewed the instrument ; and on on<i
occaaion a clergyman in the Gommcrcial-road
presented me with holf-a-sovereign, for the
interest he felt at my description, as well as
tlie objects presented to his view. It has
given universal satisfaction.
** I dontgo oat c^-ery niglit with my instru-
ment. I always go on the Monday, Tuesday,
Wednesday, and Saturday, for those are the
nights when I take most money, especially on
the Monday and Saturday. The Monday and
Saturday are generally 0«., Tne^days about Os.,
and Wednesdays about 2«. did. Then the Thurs-
day averages Is. bd., and the Fridays, in some
localities, when* the men are paid on that
night, are equal to Saturday. Kucli are the
benefits arising from night exhibition. In the
day it comes to rjitlier more. I've been to
Greenwich, and on the One-tree Hilll've done
more with the sun light than the night light.
Taking the ehuuffes of weather, such as rain
and cold bleak nights, and such weather as
isn't suitable to such an exhibition, I may say
safely that my income amounts to 80/. a-year.
The capital required for such a busine^w a-
mounts to from 10/. to 20/. My instnmiont
only cost 5/. ; but it was parted with to raise
money ; — and I woidihi't take 50/. for it. It
was my sister's son-in-law who sold it. It
was a gift more than a sale. You can buy a
very good microscope for 10/., but a gi-eat deal,
of course, is required in choosing it; for
you may buy a thing not worth iiOs. Y'ou'd
have an achromatic mi«Toscopo for :iO/. It
costs mo about 4c/. a- week for oil. the best
sporm, at I5. 4</. the pint ; and a quarter of a
pint will last me the week. I get my sjjeci-
mens in Lomlon. I prepare them jUI myself,
and always keep a stock by me. For the sake
of any gentleman who may have any micro-
scope, and wish to procure excellent living
specimens of mites and animalculrp in water,
may ilo so in tliis way. (This is a secret which
1 give from a desire which I feel to aflbnl plea-
sure to gentlemen of a scientific mind.) Get
mites from a cheesemonger. Mites ditf.T in
their shape and form, acconling to the chiH»Re
Ihey are tjiken from. The Stilton-cheesi^ «litfers
from the Dutcli-cheese mite, and so does that of
the aristix-i-ntic Cheshire, as I call it. In or-
der to rise them clear and transparent, take a
wooden box, of *Z\ inches deep and 2 J inches
in diameter, with a thick screw -hd, ami let the
lid take otl* half-way down. Place the dust in
the bottom of the box, damp the thread of the
scrow-lid, to make it air-tight. The mites
will ascend to the lid of the box. Fom: or five
hours af^er^'ards unscrew the lid gently, and,
removing it, let it fall gently on a piece of
writing paper. The mit<^ crawl up to the lid,
and by this way you get them free from dust
and clean. To make the animalculaei water,
I draw from the bottom of the water-tub a
small quantity of water, and I put about a hnnd-
ful of new hay in that water. I expose it to
the influence of *>e solar light, or some gentle
heat, for three i/v four hours. Skim oft' its
surface. After washing your hands, take your
finger and let one drop of the hay-water fall
on the gloss, and then add to it another drop
of pure water to make it more transparent.
This inform Uion took mo some years of ex-
perience to discover. I never read it or leomt
Xo. LX.
88
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
it from any one, but found it out myself; but
all liberal scientific men like to share their in-
formation.
*' It's impossible for me to say how many
people have looked through my instrument,
but they must be coimted by tens of thou-
sands. I have had 160 looking through in
one night, or ld«. 4</. worth. This was on a
peculiar occasion. They average about 6«.
worth. If 1 could get out every night I
should do well. As it is, I am obliged to work
at my trade of shoemaking to keep myself:
for you must take it into consideration, that
there are some nights when I cannot show my
exhibition. Very often I have a shilling or
sixpence given to me as a present by my ad-
mirers. Many a half-crown I've had as well.
^ One night I was showing over at the Ele-
phant and Castle, and I saw a Quaker gentle-
man coming along, and ho said to me, * What
art thee showing to night, friend ? ' So I told
him ; and he says, * And what doth thee charge,
friend t ' I answered, ' To the working man,
sir, I am determined to charge no more than
a penny; but to a gentleman, I always
leave it to their liberality. ' So he said, * TVell,
I like that, friend; I'U give thee all I have.'
And he put his hand into his pocket, and he
pulled out five penny pieces. You see that is
what I always do; and it meets with its re-
ward."
Peep-Shows.
CoMCEBKiNa these, I received the subjoined
narrative from a man of considerable expe-
rience in the ** profession :** —
" Being a cripple, I am obliged' to exhibit a
small peep-show. I lost the use of this arm
ever sinc« I was three months old. My
mother died when I was ten years old, and
after that my father took up with an Irish-
woman, and turned nie aud my youngest
sister (she was two years younger than me)
out into Uie streets. My father had originally
been a dyer, but was working at the fiddle-
string business then. My youngest sister got
employment at my father's trade, but I couldn't
get no work, because of my crippled arms. I
walked about till I fell down in the streets for
want. At last a man, who had a sweetmeat-
shop, took pity on mo. His wife made the
sweetmeats, and minded the shop while he
went out a-juggling in the streets, in the
Bamo Samee line. He told me as how, if I
would go round the country with him, and
sell prints while he was a«juggling in the
public-houses, he'd find me in wittles and
pay my lodging. I joined him« and stopped
with him two or three year. After that, I
went to work fpr a werry large waste-paper
dealer. He used to buy up all the old back
numbers of the cheap periodicals and penny
publications, and send me out with them to
sell at a farden a-piece. He used to give me
fourpence out of every shilling, and I done
very well with that, till the periodicals came
so low, and so many on 'em, that they wouldn't
sell at all. Sometimes I could make 15«. on
a Saturday night and a Sunday morning, a-
selling the odd numbers of periodicals, su& as
* Tales of the Wars,' * Lives of the Pirates,*^
* Lives of the Highwaymen,* &c I've often
sold as many as 2000 numbers on a Saturday
night in the New Cut, and the most of them
was works about thieves, and highwaymen^
and pirates. Besides me there was three
others at the same business. Altogether, I
dare say, m^ master alone used to get rid of
10,000 copies of such works on a Saturday
night and Sunday morning. Our principal
customers was young men. My master made
a good bit of money at it. He had been
about 18 years in the business, and had begun
with 2m. Od. I was with him 15 year on and
off, and at the best time I used to earn my
3()«. a- week full at that tame. But then I was
foolish, and didn't take care of my money.
When I was at tlie * odd-number business,' I
bought a peep-show. I gave 2/. 10«. for it.
I had it second-hand. I was persuaded to
buy it. A person as has got only one hand»
you see, isn't like other folks, and the people
said it would always bring me a meal of
victuals, and keep me from starving. The
peep-shows was a-doing very well then (that'e
about five or six years back), when the theaytres
was all a shilling to go into them whole priee,
but now there's many at Sd, and Ud,^ and a
good lot at a penny. Before the theaytres
lowered, a peep-showman could make Ss. or 4f.
a-day, at the least, in fine weather, and on a
Saturday night about double that money. At
a fair he could take his 15<. to I/, a-day.
Then there was about nine or ten peep-shows
in London. These were all back-shows. There
are two kinds of peep-shows, which we caH
* back-shows ' and ' caravan-shows.' The cam*
van-shows are much larger than the others,
and are drawn by a horse or a donkey. Th^
have a green-baize curtain at the back, whien
shuts out them as don't pay. The showmen
usually lives in these caravans with thdr
families. Often there will be a man, his wi£%
and three or four children, living in one of
these shows. These caravans mostly go into
the countiy, and very seldom are seen in town.
They exhibit principally at fairs and feasts, or
wakes, in country villages. They generally
go out of London between March and April*
because some fairs begin at that time, but
many wait for the fairs at M ay. Then they work
their way right round, from village to town.
They teU one another what part they're a-
going to, and Uiey never interfere with one
another's rounds. If a new hand comes into
the business, they're werry civil, and tells him
what places to work. The carawans comes to
London about October, after the fairs is over.
The scenes of them carawan shows is mostly
upon recent battles and murders. Anything
in that way, of late occurrence, suits them*
Theatrical plays ain't no good for conntiy
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
SO
(ovxis, 'cause they don't understand such
things there. People is weny fond of the
battles in the country, but a murder wot is
¥611 known is worth more than all the fights.
There was more took witli Rush's murder than
theie has been even by the Battle of Waterloo
itself. Snnic of the carawan-shows does werry
well. Their averupre taking is iJUs. a-week for
the snmroer months. At some fairs they'll
take 5/. in the three days. They have been
about town as long as we can recollect. I
ihould say there is full 50 of these carawan-
thows throughout the country. Some never
€omes into Loudon at all. There is about a
dozen that comes to London regular every
winter. The business in general goes from
family to family. The cost of a carawan-
show, second-hand, is 40/. ; that's without the
glasses, and them runs from 10s. to 1/. a-
piece, because they're lai'ge. Why, I've knowed
the front of a peep-show, with the glasses,
eost 00/. ; the front was mahogany, and had
*UJ glasses, with gilt caned mouldings round
«ach on 'em. The scenes will cost about 6/.
if done by the best artist, and 3/. if done by
a common hand. The back-sho^vs are peep-
tbows that stand upon trussels, and arc so
anall as to admit of being carried on tlie back.
The scenery is about 18 inches to 2 foot in
l^gth, and about 15 inches high. They have
beoi introduced about ftfteeu or sixteen years.
The man as first brought 'em up was named
BiUy T ; he was lame of one leg, and
nsed to exhibit little automaton figures in the
Keir Cut. On their first coming out, the oldest
Wck-showman as I know on told me they
«mld take 155. a-day. But now we can't do
more than Is. a-week, run Saturday and all
the other days together, — and that's through
the theayters being so low. It's a regular
starring life now. We has to put up with the
lunsults of people so. The back-shows gene-
Tilly exhibits plays of different kinds wot's
been performed at the tlieayters lately. I've
got many ditferent plays to my show. I only
exhibit one at a time. There's ' Halonzer the
Brmvo and the Fair Himogen ; ' *• The Dog of
Hontargis and the Forest of Bondy ;* ' Hyder
Hsiley, or the Lions of Mysore ; * ' The Forty
Thieves* (that never done no good to me);
' The DevU and Dr. Faustus ; ' and at Christ-
Bss time we exhibit pantomimes. I has some
ether scenes as well. I've * Napoleon's Return
ftom Helba,' • Napoleon at Waterloo,* * The
Death of Lord Nelson,' and also ' The Queen
embarking to start for Scotland, from the
Dockyard at Voolich.' W^e takes more from
children than grown people in London, and
more from grown people than children in the
eotmtry. You see, grown people has such re-
marks made upon them when they're a-peep-
ing dirough in Ix)ndon, as to make it bad for
us here. Lately I have been hardly able to get
a living, you may say. Some days I've taken
6^ others 8</., and sometimes Is. — that's what
I call a good day for any of tlie week-days. On
a Saturday it runs fh)m 2«. to 2^. OJ. Of the
week-days, Monday or Tuesday is the best.
If there's a fair on near London, such as
Greenwich, we can go and take 3^., and 4s., or
5ji. a-day, so long as it lasts. But after that,
we comes back to the old business, and that's
bad enough ; for, after you've paid Is. 6i/,
a-week rent, and 0</. a-week stand for your
peep-show, and come to buy a bit of coal, why
all one can get is a bit of bread and a cup <n
tea to live upon. As for meat, we don't see it
from one month's end to the other. My old
woman, when she is at work, only gets five
fardens a-pair for making a pair of drawers
to send out for the convicts, and three half-
pence for a shirt ; and out of that she has to
find her own thread. There are from six to
eight scenes in each of the plays that I shows;
and if the scenes are a bit short, why I puts
in a couple of battle-scenes ; or I makes up a
pannerammer for 'em. The children will have
so much for their money now. I charge a
halfpenny for a hactive performance. There
is characters and all — and I explains what
they are supposed to be a-talking about.
There's about six back-shows in London. I
don't think there's more. It don't pay now to
get up a new play. We works the old ones
over and over again, and sometimes we buys
a fresh one of another showman, if we can
rise the money — the price is 2s. and 2s. Orf.
I've been obligated to get rid on about twelve
of ray plays, to get a bit of victuals at home.
Formerly we used to give a hartist Is. to go in
the pit and sketch off the scenes and figures
of any new play that was a-doing well, and we
thought 'ud taJce, and arter tliat we used to
give him from Is. 6rf. to 2s. for drawing and
painting each scene, and "id. and \\d, each for
the figures, according to the size. Fiach play
costs us from 15s. to 1/. for the inside scenes
and figures, and the outside painting as well.
The outside painting in general consists of
the most attractive part of the performance.
The New-Cut is no good at all now on a Satur-
day night; that's through the cheap penny
hexhibitions there. Tottenham-court-road ain't
much account either. The streetmarkets is
the best of a Saturday night. I'm often
obliged to take bottles instead of money, and
they don't fetch more than threepence a
dozen. Sometimes I take four dozen of bottles
in a day. I lets 'em see a play for a bottle,
and often two wants to see for one large
bottle. The children is dreadful for cheap-
ening things down. In the summer I goes
out of London for a month at a stretch. In
the country I works my battle-pieces. They're
most pleased there with my Lord Nelson's
death at the battle of Trafalgar. * That there
is,' I tell 'em, * a fine painting, representing
Lord Nelson at the battle of Trafalgar.' In the
centre is Lord Nelson in his last dying mo-
ments, supported by Capt. Hardy and the chap-
lain. On the left is the h explosion of one of the
enemy's ships by fire. That represents a fine
IIU
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON FOOB.
paintiDg, representiDg the death of Lord Nel-
8011 at the battle of Trafalgar, wot was foaght
on the r2th of October, 1806. I've got five
glasses, they cost about d«. apiece when new,
and is about 8) inches across, with a 3-foot
focas.'*
ACBOBAT, OS STBSXT-PoSTTnUUt.
jft VAN who, as he said, ** had all his life been
engaged in the profeHsion of Acrobat," volun-
teered to give me some details of the life led
flid the earnings made by this class of stroet-
performers.
He at the present moment belongs to a
•« school " of five, who are dressed up in fanci-
faX and tight-fitting costumes of white calico,
with blue or red trimmings ; and who are often
seen in the quiet by-streeU going through
their gymnastic performances, mounted on
each other's shoulders, or throwing somer-
■aults in the air.
He was a short, wiry-built man, with a
broad chest, which somehow or onotlier seem-
ed unnatural, for the bones appeared to have
been forced forward and dislocated. His ge-
neral build did not betoken the great nniscu-
lar strength which must be necessnrj' for the
various feats which he has to perform ; and
his walk was rather slovenly nnd loutish than
brisk and springj', as one would have expected.
He wore die same brown Chesterfield coat
which we have all seen him slip ovor his pro-
fessional dress in the street, when moving off
after an exhibition.
His yellow hair reached nearly to his shoul-
ders, and not being confined by tlie ribbon he
usually wears across his forehead in the pub-
lic thoroughfare, it kept stragjfling into his
eyes, and he had to toss it ba<!k with a jerk,
after the fashion of a horse with his nose-bog.
He was a simple, "good-natured" fellow,
and told his story in a straightforward man-
ner, which was the more extraordintti7, as he
prefaced his statement with a remark, ** that
•U in his * school,' (the professional term for
a gang or troop,) were terribly against his
coming ; but that as all he was going to say
was nothing but the trutli, he didn't care a fig i
for any of 'em." |
It is a singular fact, that this man spoke j
fluently both the French and German lan-
guages ; and, as will be seen in his statement,
he has passed many years of his life abroad,
performing in several circuses, or " pitching "
(exhibiting in the streets) in the various large
towns of Sweden, Denmark, Prussia, Switzer-
land, and France.
The following is the history of his life, from
his earliest remembrance, — from two years
old, indeed, — doMm to his present age, thirty.
six: —
"I am what is known as a street-posturer, or
acrobat. I belong to a school of five, and we
go about the streets doing pyramids, bending,
juggling, and la perche.
" I've been at acrobating for these thirlgr-flve
years, in London and all parts of En^and,
as well as on the Continent, in France and
Germany, as well as in Denmark and Sweden ;
but only in the principal towns, such as Co-
peuhagen and Stockholm ; but only a Iktle^
for we come back by sea almost directly. ]tf j
fatlier was a tumbler, and in his da>^ very
great, and used to be at tlie theatres and in
Richanlson's show. He 's acted along with
Joe Grimaldi. I don't remember the play it
was in, but I know he's acted along with him
at Sadler's Wells Theatre, at tlie time there was
real water there. I have heard him talk about
it. He brought me regular up to the profes-
sion, and when I first came out I wasn't above
two years old, and father used to dance me on
my hands in Risley's style, but not like Bisley.
I con just recollect being danced in his hands,
but I can't remember much about it, only he
used to throw me a somersault with his hand.
The first time I ever come out by myself was
in a piece called ' Snowball, ' when I was in^
troduced in a snowball ; and I had to do the
spUts and strides. When father first trained
me, it hurt my back awfully. He used to take
my legs and stretch them, and work them
round in their sockets, and put them up
straight by my side. That is what they called
being * cricked,' and it's in general done be-
fore you eat anything in the morning. 0, yes,
I can remember being cricked, and it hurt me
terrible. He put my breast to his breast, and
then pulled my legs up to my head, and
knocked 'em against my head and cheeks a-
bout a dozen times. It seems like as if your
body was broken in two, and all your muscles
being pulled out like India-rubber.
" i worked for my father till I was twelve
years of ap:e, then I was sold for two years to
a man of the name of Tagg, another showman^
who took me to France. He had to pay father
Tj/. a-year, and keep me respectable. I used
to do the same business witli him as with
father, — splits, and such-like, — and we acted
in a piece that was \^Tote for us in PariSy
called *' Les deux Clowns anglais," which was
produced at the Porte St. Antoine. That
must have been about the year 1830. We
were dressed up like two English downs,
with our faces painted and all ; and we were
very successful, and had plenty of flowers
thrown to us. There was one Bomet Burns,
who was showing in the Boulevards, and
colled the New Zealcnid Chief, who was tat-
tooed all over his body. He was very kind to
me, and mode me a good many presents, aad
some of the laiiies were kind to me. I knew
this Bamet Bums pretty well, becaose my
master was drunk all day pretty well, and he
was the only Englishman I had to speak tOy
for I diiln't know French.
" I ran away from Tagg in Paris, and I went
with the * Freres de Bouchett,' rope-dancers,
two brothers who were so called, and I hod
to clown to the rope. I stopped, with them
J
LOIfVON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
01
tfafiee retn, and we went throagh Belgium
aod Holland, and done vety well with them.
The^ was my masters, and had a large booth
of their own, and would engage paraders to
itndouiidfle the show to draw &e people ; bat
thej did all the perfbrmanoes themselves, and
it wis mostly ac the fairs.
** From them I came to England, and began
pitebing in the street. I didn't much like it,
liter being a regular performer, and looked
ipon it as a drop. I travelled right down by
myself to Glasgow fair. I kept company with
Wombwell's show, — only working for myself.
loa see they used to stop in the towns, and
drtv plenty of people, and then I'd begin
IRfiohing to the crowd. I wasn't lonely because
I knew plenty of the wild-beast chaps, and,
beades, I've done pretty well, taking two or
tlvee shillings a day, and on a Saturday and
Monday generally five or six. I had a suit of
tights, and a pair of twacks, with a few span .
gles on, and as soon as the people came round
me I began to work.
"At Glasgow I got a pound a clay, for I went
vith Mr. Mumford, who had some dancioi^ dulls
showing at the bottom of the Stone buildings.
The fiur is a week. And after that one of
oar chaps wrote to me that there w&s a job
fer me, if I liked to go over to Ireland and
join Hr. Batty, who had a circus there. They
QKd to build wooden circuses in them days,
tod hadn't tents as now. I stopped a twelve-
moDth with him, and we only went to four
towns, and the troupe did wonders. Mr.
Hughes was the manager for Mr. Batty. There
VBs Herr Hengler, the great rope-dancer
moDg the troupe, and his brother Alfred, the
ftest rider, as is dead now, for a horse kicked
\m. at Bnstol, and broke his arm, and he
wouldn't have it cut off, and it mortified, and
he died.
"When I left Ireland I went back to Glas-
gow, and Mr. Band Miller gave the school I
hid joined an engagement for three montlis.
We had 61. Srweek between four of us, besides
ft heneflt, which brought us 2/. each more.
IGDer had a large penny booth, and had taken
•bottt \ULoT 14/. a-night. There was acting,
ad oar performances. Alexander, the lessee of
the Theatre Royal, prevented him, for having
■eted, as he also did Anderson the Wizard of the
Korth, who had the Circus, and acted as well,
and Mumford ; but they won the day.
" I left Glasgow with another chap, and wo
iwit first to Edinburgh and then to Hara-
Voigh, and then we played at the Tivoli Gar-
4ni. I stopped abroad for fourteen years,
pvfonmng at difierent places through France
■id Switzerland, either along with regular
companies or else by ourselves, for there was
foar on us, in schools. After Hamburgh, we
vent to Copenhagen, and then ^e joined the
hiother Prioes, or, as they call 'em there,
J*wce. We <mly did tumbling and jumping
op on each other's shoulders, and dancing the
^ pole on our foet, what is called in French
*trankr.' From there we joined the brothers
Layman, — both Russians they was, — who was
very clever, and used to do the *pierrot;' the
French clown, dressed all in white, — for their
clown is not like our clown, — and they danced
the rope and all. The troupe was called the
Russian ptmtomimists. There we met Herr
Hengler again, as well as Deulan the dancer,
who was (lancing at the Eagle and at the
theatres as Harlekin ; and Anderson, who was
one of the first clowns of the day, and a good
comic singer, and on excellent companion, for
he could make puns and make poems on every
body in the room. He did, you may recollect,
some few years ago, throw himself out of
winder, and killed himself. I read it in the
newspapers, and a mate of mine afterwards
told me he was crazy, and thought he was
performing, and said, ** Hulloa, old feller ! I'm
coming!" and threw himself out, the same as
if he'd been on the stage.
*' In Paris and all over Switzerland wc per«
formed at the fairs, when we had no engage^
ments at the regular theatres, or we'd pitch in
the streets, just according. In Paiis we was
regular stars. There was only rae and R ,
and we was engaged for tliree months with
Mr. Le Compte, at his theatre in the Passage
Choiseul. It's all children that acts there;
and he trains young octoi-s. He's called the
'Physician to the King;' indeed, he is tha
king's conjurer.
"Im very fond ot' France; indeed, I first
went to school there, when I was alonpj with
Tagg. You see I never liad no schooling in
Loudon, for I was so busy that I hadn't no
time for learning. I also married in France.
My wife was a groat bender (used to throw
herself backwards on her hands and make the
body in a harch). I think slie killed herself
at it ; indeed, as the doctors tolled me, it was
notliing else but that. She would keep on
doing it when she was in the family way.
I've many a time ordered her to give over, but
she wouldn't ; she was so fond of it ; for she
took a deal of money. She died in childbed
nt St. Malo, poor thing !
" In France we take a deal more money
than in England. You see they all give; even
a child will give its mite ; and another thing,
anybody on a Sunday may take as much
money as will keep him all the week, if they
like to work. The most money I ever took in
all ray life was at Calais, the first Sunday
cavalcade after I^ent: that is the Sunday after
Mardi-gras. They go out in a cavalcade,
dressed up in carnival costume, and beg for
the poor. There was me, Dick S , and
Jim C and his wife, as danced the High-
land fling, and a chap they calls Polka, who
did it when it first came up. We pitched about
the streets, and wc took 700 fi:ancs all in half-
pence— that is, 28/. — on one Sunday: and
you mustn't work till after twelve o'clock, tliat
is grand mass. There were liards and cen-
times, and half-sons, and all kinds of copper
02
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
moiiry, but very little silver, for the French-
men Vnn't afford it; but all copper money
change into five-frnno pieces, and it's the same
to nie. The other chaps didn't like the liards,
so I bought '01 ji all up. They're like button-
ho:i(N, and such-like ; and they said they
-nouldn't Imve that bad money, so I got more
than my share: for after we had shared I
bought the heap of liards, and gave ten iVancs
for the heap, and I think it brought me in
sixty francH ; but then I had to run about to
all tlio little shops to get five-franc pieces.
Yon sne, I was the only chap that spoke
French ; ko, you see, I'm worth a double share.
I always ttU the chaps, when they come to
mc, that I don't want nothink but my share ;
but then I says, * You're single men, and I'm
married, and I must support my children;'
and so I gets a little out of the h6tel expenses,
for I charges them \s, M, a-day, and at the
K«»coud-rate h6tels I can keep them for a shil-
ling,'. Theres three or four schools now want
me to take them over to France. They calls
me * Fr»^n«'hy,' because I can talk French and
C'ronjinn tlnently — that's the name I goes by.
*' I used to go to all the fJtes in Paris along
with my troupe. We have been four and we
have U'on five in one troupe, but our general i
nunibtT is fniu:, for we don't want any more
than four ; for we can do the three high and
the sproiul, and that's the principal thing.
Our music is generally the drum and pipes.
We don't take them over with us, but gets
Italian<4 to do it. Sometimes we gets a German
band of five to come for a share, for you see
tliey can't take money as we can, for our per-
formance will cause children to give, and with
them they don't think about it, not being so
partial to music.
" Posturing to this day is called in France
* Le Pislocftiion anglais;' and indeed the
Knglish fellows is the best in the world at
posturing : we can lick them all. I think
they eat too much bread ; for though meat's
so cheap in the south of France {'Zd. a-lb.),
yet they don't eat it. They don't eat much
potatoes I'ither ; and in the south they gives
them to the pigs, which used to make me
grumble, I'm so f<md of them. Chickens, too,
is Id. tlie pair, and you may drink wine at Id.
the horn.
*' At St. Cloud f(§te we were called • I^s
Quatre Freres anglais,' and we used to pitch
near the Cascade, which was a good place for
us. We have shared our 30«. each a-day then
easy ; and a great deal of English money we
got then, for the English is more generous out
of England. There was the f(?te St Ger-
main, and St. Denis, and at Versailles, too ;
and we've done pretty well at each, as well as
at the Champs Elys^ on the 1st of May, as
used to be the fete Louis- Philippe. On that
f^te we were paid by the king, and we hail
fifty francs a man, and plenty to eat and drink
on that day; and every poor man in Paris has
two pound of sausages and two pounds of
bread, and two bottles of wine. But we were
different firom that, you know. We had a
d/jeiniy with fish, flesh, and fowl, and a dinner
fit for a king, both brought to us in the Champs
Elys^es, and as much as ever we hked to drink
all day long — the best of wine. We had to
perform every alternate half-hour.
** I was in Paris when Mr. Macready come
to Paris. I was engaged with my troupe at
the Porte St. Martin, where we was called the
Bedouin Arabs, and had to brown our faces.
I went to see him, for I knew one of the
actors. He was very good, and a beautiful
house there was — splendid. All my other
partners they paid. The price was half-a-
guinea to the lowest place. The French peo-
ple said he was very good, but he was mostly
supported by the English that was there.
An engagement at the Porte St. Martin was
lUOO francs a-week for five of \is; bat of
course we had to leave the streets alone during
the four weeks we was at the theatre.
** I was in Paris, too, at the revolntion in
1848, when Louis-Philippe had to run ofll
I was in bed, about two o'clock in the morn-
ing, when those that began the revolntion
was coming round — men armed; and they
come into ever}'body'8 bed-room and said, * You
must get up, you're wanted.' I told them I
was English ; and they said, * It don't matter;
you get yoiur living here, and you must fight
the same as we fight for our liberty.' They
took us — four English as was in the same
gang as I was with — to the Barri^re du
TrOne, and made us pick up paving-stones.
I had to carry them ; and we formed four bar-
ricades right up to the Faubourg St. Antoine,
close to the Bastille. We had sometimes a
bit of bread an<l a glass of \vine, or brandy,
and we was four nights and three days work-
ing. There was a groat deal of chaff going
on, and they called me * le petit Supplier*
posturer, you know — but they was of all coun-
tries. We was put in the back -ground, and
didn't fire much, for we was ordered not to
fire unless attacked ; and we had only to keep
ground, and if anything come, to give warn-
ing ; but we had to supply them with powder
and ammunition of one sort and another.
There was one woman — a very clever woman
—from Normandy, who use<l to bring us
brandy round. She died on the barricade;
and there's a song about her now. I was
present when part of the throne was homed.
After that I went for a tour in Lorraine ; and
then I was confined in Tours for thirty-four
da^-s, for the Republicans passed a bill that
all foreigners were to be sent home to their
own countries ; and, indeed, several manufiae-
tories where English worked had to stop, for
the workmen was sent home.
" I came back to England in 1852, and Txe
been pitching in the streets ever since. I've
changed gangs two or three times since then ;
but there's five in our gang now. There's
three high for * pyramids,' and *the Arabs
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
03
hiDg down ; ' that is, one a-top of his shoul-
ders, and one hanging down from his neck ;
•od * the spread,' that^s one on the shoulders,
and one hanging from each hand ; and * the
Hercules.' that is. one on the ground, support-
ing himself on his hands and feet; whilst
one stands on his knees, another ou his
shoulders, and the other one a-top of them
two, on their shoulders. There's loads of
tiicks like them that we do, that would
amoait fill up your paper to put down. There's
one of our gang dances, an Englishman,
vfailst the fifth plays the drum and pipes.
The dances are mostly comic dances; or, as
TO call them, * comic hops.' He throws his
legs about and makes faces, and he dresses
u a clown.
* When it's not too windy, wc do the perch.
We carry a long fir pole about with us, twenty-
four feet long, and Jim the strong man, as
they calls me, that is I, holds the pole up at
the bottom. The one that runs up is called
the sprite. It's the bottom man that holds
the pole that has the dangerous work in la
perche. He's got all to look to. Anybody,
who has got any courage, can nm up the
pole; but I have to guide and balance it;
and the pole weighs some 20 lbs., and the
sun about d stone. When it's windy, it's
vay awkward, and I have to walk about to
keq) him steady and balance him; but Im
asrer frightened, I know it so well. Tlie
aan who runs up it does such feats as these ;
for instance, ' the bottle position,' that is only
holding by his feet, with his two arms ex-
tended ; and then '■ the hanging down by one
toe,' with only one foot on the top of the pole,
and hanging down with his aims out, swim-
■ing on the top on his belly ; and ' the hori-
zontal.' as it is called, or supporting the body
out sideways by the strength of the arms, and
sadi.like, winding up with coming down head
fiist.
* The pole is fixed very tightly in a socket
m my waistband, and it takes two men to pull
it out, for it gets jammed in with his force
on a-tup of it. The danger is more with the
bottom one than the one a-top, though few
people would think so. You see, if he falls
ofi^ be is sure to light on his feet like a cat ;
for we're taught to tliis trick ; and a man can
, jnnp off a place tlitrty feet high, without
halting himself, easy. Now if the people was
to go frontwards, it would be all up with me,
' boMOse with the leverage and its being fixed
I to tight to my stomach, there's no help for it,
I lor it would be sure to rip me up and tear out
I aiy entrails. I have to keep my eyes about
I i&e, for if it goes too fur, I could never regain
the balance again. But it's easy enough when
jon're accustomed to it.
* The one that goes up the pole can always
lee into the drawing-rooms, and he'll tell us
vhere it's good to go and get any money, for
he can lee the people peeping behind the
cartains ; and they generally give when they
find they are discovered. It's part of his work
to glance his eyes about him, and then he
calls out whilst he is up, ' to the right,' or ' the
left,' as it may be; and although the crowd
don't understand him, we do.
" Our gang generally prefer performing in
the West-end, because there's more * calls'
there. Gentlemen looking out of window see
us, and call to us to stop and perform; but
we don't trust to them, even, but make a col-
lection when the performance is half over ; and
if it's good we continue, and make two or three
collections during tlie exhibition. What we
consider a good collection is 7*. or 8«.; and
for that we do the whole performance. And be-
sides, we get what we call * ringings ' afterwards;
that's halfpence that are thrown into the ring.
Sometimes we get lOs. altogether, and some-
times more and sometimes less; though it's
a very poor pitch if it's not up to 5*. I'm
talking of a big pitch, when wc go through all
our * slang,' as we say. But then we have our
little pitches, which don't lost more tlian a
quarter of an hour — our fiying pitches, as we
call them, and for them O*. is an out-and-outer,
and we are well contented if we get half-a-crown.
We usually reckon about twenty pitches a-day,
that's eight before dinner and twelve after. It
depends greatly upon the holidays as to what
we makes in the days. If there's any faii-s or
feasts going on we do better. There's two days
in the week wo reckon nothing, that's Friday
and Saturday. Friday's little good all day
long, and Saturday's only good after sLx o'clock,
when wages have been paid. My share may on
the average come to this : — Monday, about 7«.
or 85., and the same for Tuesday. Then Wed-
nesday and Thursday it falls off again, per-
haps 35. or 4*. ; and Friday ain't wortli much ;
no more is Saturday. We used to go to
Sydenham on Saturdays, and we would find the
gents there; but now it's getting too late, and
the price to the Palace is only 2a. (id., when it
used to be 5s., and that makes a wonderful
difference to us. And yet we like the poor
people better than the rich, for it's the half-
pence that tells up best Perhaps we might
take a half-sovereign, but it's veiy rare, and
since 1853 I don't remember taking more than
twenty of them. There was a Princess — I'm
sure I've forgotten her name, but she was
German, and she used to live in Grosvenor-
square — she used to give us half-a-sovereign
every Monday during three months she was in
London. The servants was ordered to tell us
to come every Monday at three o'clock, and we
always did; and even tliough tliere was no.
body looking, we used to play all the same ;
and as soon as the drum ceased playing, there
was the money brought out to us. We con-
tinued playing to her till we was told she had
gone away. We have also had sovereign calls.
When my gang was in the Isle of Wight, Lord
Y has often give us a sovereign, and plenty
to eat and drink as well.
^ I can't say but what it's as good as a
94
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
hundred a-year to me; but I can't say, it's the
same with all posturew: for you see I can
talk French, and if there's any foreigners in
the crowd I can talk to them, and they are sure
to give something. But most i)08turer8 make
a good living, and if they look out for it, there
are few but make 80». a- week.
Posturing as it is called (some people
call it contortionists, that's a new name;
a Chinese nondescript — that's the first
name it came out as, although what wc
ealls posturing is a man as can sit upon
nothing; as, for instance, when he's on the
back of two chairs and does a split with his
legs stretched out and sitting on nothing like)
— posturing is reckoned the healthiest life
there is, because we never get the rheumatics ;
and another thing, we always eat hearty. We
often put on wet dresses, such as at a fair,
when they've been washed out clean, and we put
them on before they're dry, and that's what gives
the rheumatism ; but we arc always in such a
perspiration that it never affects us. It's very
violent exercise, and at night we feels it in our
thighs more than anywhere, so that if it's damp
or cold weather it hurts us to sit down. If it's
wet weather, or showery, we usually get up
stiff in the morning, and then we have to
• crick ' each other before we go out, and prac-
tise in our bed-rooms. On the Sunday we
also go out and practise, either in a field, or at
the * Tan* in Bermondsey. We used to go to
the* Hops' in Maiden-lfUQO, but that's done
away with now.
" When we go out performing, we always
take our dresses out with us, and we have our
regular houses appointed, according to what
part of the town we play in, if in London ; and
we have one pint of beer a man, and put on
our costume, and leave our clothes bebind us.
Every morning we put on a clean dress, so we
are obliged to have two of them, and whilst we
are wearing one the other is being washed.
Some of our men is married, and their wives
wash for them, but them as isn't give the dress
to anybody who wants a job.
** Accidents are very rare with posturers.
We often put our hip-bone out, but that's soon
put right again, and we are at work in a week.
All oiir bones are loose like, and wo can ptiU
one another in, without having no pullies.
One of my gang bi-oke his leg at Cbatham
race-course, through the grass being slipper}-,
and ho was pitched down fVom three high;
but wc paid him his share, just the same as
if he was out with us ; — it wouldn't do if we
didn't, as a person wouldn't mount in bad
weather. That man is getting on nicely, —
he walks with a crutch though, — but he'U be
right in another month, and then he'll only be
put to light work till he's strong. He ought
not to be walking out yet, but he's so daring
there's no restraining him. I, too, once
broke my arm. I am a hand-jumper; that is,
I a'most always light on my hands when I
jump. I was on a chair on a top of a table,
and I had to get into the chair and do what*
we call the fh)g, and jump off it, coming down
on my hands. Everything depends upon how
you hold your arms, and I was careless, and
didnt pay attention, and my arm snapped
just below the elbow. I couldn't work for
three months. I was at Beauvais, in France,
at the time, but the circus I was witli sup-
ported me.
** My father's very near seventy-six, and he
has been a timibler for fifty years; my children
are staying with him, and he's angry tliat I
won't bring them up to it : but I want them to •
be some trotie or another, because I don't like
the life for tlicm. Tliere's so much suffering
before they begin tumbling, and then there's
prreat temptation to drink, and such-like. Pd
sooner send them to school, than let them get
their liring out of the streets. Pve one boy
and two girls. They're always at it at home,
indeed ; father and my sister-in-law say they
cant keep them firom it. The boy's very nimble.
** In the winter time we generally goes to the
theatres. Wc are a'most always engaged for
the pantomimes, to do the sprites. We always
reckon it a good thirtecn-weeks' job, but in
the country it's only a month. If we don't
apply for tlie job they come after us. The
sprites in a pantomime is quite a new style,
and we are the only chaps that can do it, —
the posturers and tumblers. In some theatres
they find the dn*sses. Last winter I was at
Liveri>ool, and wore a green dress, spangled
all over, which belonged to Mr. Gopcland, the
manager. We never speak in the play, but
just merely rush on, and throw somersaults,
and frogs, and such -like, and then rush off
again. Little Wheeler, the greatest tumbler
of the day, was a posturer in the streets, and
now he's in France doing his 1(W. a-weel^
engaged for three years."
The Street Bislet.
There is but one person in London who goes
about the street doing what is termed " The
Kislcy performance," and even he is rarely to
be met with.
Of all the street professionals whom I hare
seen, this man certainly bears off the palm for
respectability of attire. He wore, when he
came to me, a brown Chesterfield coat and
Mack continuations, and but for the length of
his hair, the immense size of his hmbs, and
the peculiar neatness of his movements, it
would have been impossible to have recognized
in him any of those characteristics which
usually distinguish the street performer. He
had a chest which, when he chose, he could
force out almost like a pouter pigeon. The
upper part of his body was broad and weighty-
looking. He asked me to feel the muscle of
his arm, and doubling it up, a huge lump rose,
almost as if he had a cocoa-nut under his
sleeve; in fact, it seemed as fuHy developed as
the gilt arms placed as signs over the gold-
beaters' shops.
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
05
Like most of toe street professionals, he
Tolimtcered to exhibit before me some of his
feaU of strength and agility. Ho threw his
bfad back (his long hair tossing about like an
Indian fly- whisk) until his head touched his
heels and there he stood bent backward, and
Dearly dtuible, like a strip of whalebone. Then
he promenaded round the room, walking on
his hands, his coat-tails falling about his
bbi'oldcrs, and making a rare jingle of lialf-
penoe the while, and his legs dangling iu front
of him as limp as the lash of a cart- whip. I
refused to allow him to experiment upon me,
and politely declined his obliging offer to
raise me from the ground, " and hold me at
imi'is-length like a babby."
^Tien he spoke of his parents, and the
bruthers who performed with him, he did so
m m^^t affectionato terms, and his descriptions
of the straggles he had gone tlirough in his
fixed determination to be a tumbler, and how
he bad worked to gain his parents' consent,
had a peculiarly s<.)n'owful touch about them,
05 if he still blamed himself for the pain lie
had caused them. Farther, whenever he
ZDentioned his litUc brothers, ho always
stopped for two or three minutes to explain
to me that they were the cleverest lads in
London, and as true aud Idnd-hcartcd as they
Tere talented.
He was more minute in his account of him-
»df than my space will permit him to be ;
for as he said, " he had a wonderful rememory-
ition. and could recollect imything."
With the omission of a few interesting de-
tails, the following is tlie account of the poor
iellow s life : —
** My professional name is Signer Nelsonio,
bat iny real one is Nelson, and my companions
know me as 'Leu,' which is short for Lewis.
I can do plenty of things beside tlie liisley
business, fur it forms only one part of my
entertainment. I am a strong man, aud a
fire-king, and a stone -breaker by the fist, as
veil as being sprite, and posturer, and doing
• la f>erche.*
Last Christmas (1855) I was, along with my
tro brothers, engaged at the Theatre Eoyal,
Gieltenhani, to do the si>rites in the panto-
mime. I have brought the bill of the per-
ionnances with me to show it yon. Here you
gee the pantomime is called *THE IMP OF
THE NORTH, or The Golden Bason;
nd Harlequin aud the ^Iillek's Daugu-
7EK.' In the pantoiiiimical transformations
it says, * SmiTES — by the Nelson Family : *
that's me and my two brothers.
•* The reason why I took to the lUsley busi-
ness was this. When I was a boy of seven I
went to school, and my father and mother
would make me go ; but, unfortunately, I was
stubborn, and would not. I said I wanted to
do some work. * Well,' said they, * you shan't
do any work not yet, till you're thiilecn years
dd, and yoa shall go to schooL' Says I, * I
vmdo vork.' Well, I wouldn't; so I plays
the truant. Then I goei to amuse myselt*, and
I goes to Haggerstone-fields in tlie Hackney-
road, and then I see some boys learning to
tumble on some dung there. So I began to
do it too, and I very soon picked up two or
three tricks. There was a man who was in
tlie profession as tumbler and acrobat, who
came there to practise his feats, and he see
me tumbling, and says he, * My lad', will you
come along with me, and do the Eisley busi-
ness, and ill buy you your clothes, and give
you a shilling a- week besides?' I told him
that perhaps mother and father wouldn't let
me go ; but says he, * 0, yes they will.' So
ho comes to our house ; aud says mother,
' WTiat do you want along wiUi my boy ?' and
he says, * I want to make a tumbler of him.'
But she wouldn't.
" My father is a tailor, but my uncle and
all the family was good singers. My uncle
was leuder of the Druiy-lane band, and Miss
Nelson, who came out there, is my cousin.
Tliey ore out in Australia now, doing very
well, giring concerts day and night, and clear-
ing by both perloniionces one hundred and •
titty pounds, day aud night (and sooner, more
than less), as advertised in the pa^KT which
they sent to us.
** One day, instead of going to school, I went
along with this man into the streets, and then
he did the Risley business, throwing me about
on his hands and feet. I was about thu'teen
years old then. Mother asked me at night
where I had been, and when I said I had been
at school, she went and asked tlie master and
found mo out Then I brought home some
dresses once, and she tore Uiem uj), so I was
forced to drop going out in the streets. I
msuie some more dresses, and she tore those
up. Then I got chucking about, a la Hisley,
my htde brother, who was about seven
years old ; and says mother, * Let that boy
alone, you'll break his neck.' * No, I shan't,'
say I, and I kept on doing till I had leaint
him the tricks.
" One Saturday night, father and mother
and my eldest brother went to a concert-room.
I had no money, so I couldn't go. I asked my
little brother to go along with me round some
tap-rooms, exhibiting with me. So I smuggled
him out, telling him I'd give him lots of cakes ;
end awuy we went, and we got about seven
shillings and sixpence. I got home before
father and mother come home. When they
returned, father says, *^^^lere have you been?*
Then I showed the money we had got ; he was
regular astonished, and says he ' How is this ?
you can do nothing, you ain't clever I * I says,
* Oh, ain't I ? and it's all my own learning :' so
tlien he told me, that since he couldn't do
nothing else with me, I should take to it as
my profession, aud stick to it.
" Soon after I met my old friend the swal-
lower again, in Eatcliffehighway. I was along
with my little brotlier, and both dressed up in
tights and spangled trunks. Says he, ' Oh, yon
96
« LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
will take to tumbling will you? Well, then, come
along with me, and we'll go in the country.*
Then he took us down to Norwich (to Yar-
mouth) ; then he beat me, and would give me
no clothes or money, for he spent it to go and
get drunk. We not sending any money home,
mother began to wonder what had become of
me ; so one night, when this man was out with
a lot of girls getting drunk, I dipt away, and
walked thirty miles that night, and then I began
I)erforming at different public-houses, and so
worked my way till I got back to London
again. My little brother was along with me,
but I carried him on my shoulders. One day it
came on to rain awful, and we had run away in
our dresses, and then we was dripping. I was
frightened to see little Johnny so wet, and
thought he'd bo ill. There was no shed or
bam or nothing, and only the country road,
so I tore on tUl we came to a roadside inn,
and then I wrung his clothes out, and I only
had fourpcnce in my pocket, and I ordered
some rum' and water hot, and made him
drink. * Drink it, it'll keep the cold out of
you.' When we got out he was quite giddy, and
kept sa}ing, * Oh, I'm so wet I ' With all these
misfortunes I walked, carrying the little chap
across my shoulders. One day I only had a
halfpenny, and Johnny was crying for hunger,
Ko I goes to a fellow in a orchard and say I,
• Can you make me a ha'path of apples ? * He
would take the money, but he gave a cap-full
of fallings. I've walked thirty-eight miles in
one day canying him, and I was awfully tired.
On that same day, when we got to Colchester,
we put up at the Blue Anchor, and I put
Johnny into bed, and I went out myself and
went the round of the public-houses. My feet
was blistered, but I had my light tumbling
slippers on, and I went to wox^ and got sixteen
pence-halfpenny. This got us bread and
cheese for supper and breakfast, and paid
threepence each for the bed ; and the next day
we went on and performed in a village and got
three shillings. Then, at Chelmsford we got
eight shillings. I bought Johnny some
clothes, for he had only his tights and little
trunks, and though it was summer he was
cold, especially after rain. The nearer we
got to lK>ndon the better we got off, for they
give US then plenty to eat and drink, and we
did pretty well for money. After I passed
Chelmsford I never was hungry again. When
we got to Romford, I waited two days till it
was market-day, when we performed before
the country people and got plenty of money
and beer ; but I never cared for the beer. We
took four shillings and sixpence. I wouldn't
let Johnny take any beer, for Pm fond of him,
and he's eleven now, and the cleverest little
fellow in England ; and I learnt him every-
thing he knows out of my own head, for he
never had no master. We took the train to
London from Romford (one shilling and six-
pence each), and then we went home.
**When we got back, mother and father
said they knew how it would be, and laughed
at us. They wanted to keep us at home, but
I wouldn't, and they was forced to give way.
In London I stopped still for a long time, at
last got an engagement at two shillings a-
night at a penny gaff in Shoreditch. It was
Sambo, a black man, what went about the
streets along with the Demon Brothers—*
acrobats — that got me the engagement.
" One night father nnd mother came to see
me, and they was frightennd to soe me chuck-
ing my brother about ; and she calls out, * Oh,
don't do that! youll lirenk his back.' The
people kept hollaring out, * Turn that woman
out ! ' but she answers, * They are my sons —
stop 'em !' When I bent myself back'ards she
calls out, < Lord ! mind your bones.'
" After this I noticed that my other brother,
Sam, was a capital hand at jumping over the
chairs and tables. He was as active as a
monkey ; indeed he plays monkeys now at the
different ballets that comes out at the chief
theatres. It struck me he would make a good
tumbler, and sure enough he is a good one.
I asked him, and he said he should ; and then
he sec me perform, and he declared he would
be one. He was at my uncle's then, as a
carver and gilder. When I told father, says he,
* Let 'em do as they hke, they'll get on.' I said
to him one day, * Sam, let's see what you're like :
so I stuck him up in his chair, and stuck his
legs behind his head, and kept him like that
for Ave minutes. His limbs bent beautiAil^
and he didn't want no cricking.
**I should tell you, that before that he
done this here. You've heard of Bdcer, the
red man, as was performing at the Citf of
London Theatre; well, Sam see the cut of
him sitting in a chair with his legs folded*
just like you fold your arms. So Sam pulls
down one of the bills with the drawing on it»
and he says, *I can do that,' and he goes
home and practises fh)m the engraving till
he was perfect. T^en he show^ me, and
says I, *• That's the style ! it's beautifVd ! you'll
do.'
" Then we had two days' practice together,
and we worked the double-tricks together.
Then, I learned him style and grace, what I
knowed myself; such as coming before an
audience and making the obedience ; and by
and by says I to him, * We'll come out at a
theatre, and make a good bit of money.'
"Well, we went to another exhibition, and
we came out all three together, and our salary
was twenty-five shillings a- week, and we was
very successful. Then we got outside Peter's
Theatre at Stepney fair, the last as ever
was, for it's done away with now; we did
very well then ; they give us twelve shil-
lings a-day between us for three days. We
did the acrobating and Risley business out-
side the parade, and inside as well. Sam got
on wonderful, for his mind was up to it, and
he liked the work. I and my brothers can da
as well as any one in this business, I dont
GAEBET-MASTER; OE CHEAP FUENITUBE 5IAKEE-
iFroK a Stitch.}
LOXDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOB.
07
core who comes before us. I can do upwards
!.'♦' oue hundred and twenty one ilifiVrent tricks
iu tumbling, when I'm along with those little
lrll«»ws. "VVe con do the hoops and glasses —
putting a glass of beer on my forehead, and
}:-.ing throui^h hoop?? double, and lying down
»nd getting up again itithout spillhig it. Thon
tlieres the bottle-sprite, and tiie short stilts,
&nd globo running and globe dancing, and
chair tricks ; perform with the chairs ; and the
p.<le trick — laperche — iiith two boys, not one
miDd you.
•• We've been continuing ever since at this
EiJiy business. I lay dtjwii on a cari)ot, and
ilirow then summersets from feet to feet. I
tell vi>u what the music plnys to it, — it's the
nilway overtime, and it begins now and then
quicker and quicker, till I throw them fast as
bghtniug. Sam does about fifty-four or fifty-
five of these summersets one after another,
aailJohny does about twenty-five, because he's
littler. Then there's standing upright, and
staud 'em one in one hand and one on the
other. Then I throws them up iu summersets,
and catch 'em on my pahu, and then I chuck
Vm on the grormd.
-The art with me lying on the ground is
that it takes the strength, and the sight to see
tiiai I catch 'em properly ; for if I missed, they
mi^ht break their necks. The audience fancies
that it's most with them tumbling, but every
thing depends upon me catching them pro-
perir. Every time they jump, I have to give
*em a jtirk, and iwca. 'em properly. It's almost
as much work as if I was doing it myself.
When they learn at first, they do it on a soft
ground, to as not to hurt theirselvcs. It don't
make the blood come to the head lying down
so long on my back — only at first.
" Tve done the Ilisley business first at peimy
exhibitions, an«l after that I went to fairs; then
I went r«jund the country with a booth — a
man named ^lanly it was ; but we dropped
that, 'cos my little brother was knocked up,
f -r it was too hard work for the little fellow
building up and taking down the booth some-
thnes twice in a-day, and then going off" twenty
miles further on to another fair, and building
up again the next dny. Then we went pitch-
ing about in the main streets of the towns in
tic country. Then 1 always had a dram and
pipes. As soon as a ci-owd collected I'd say,
'Gentlemen, I'm from the principal theatres in
London, and before 1 begin I must have five
shillings in the ring.' Then we'd do some,
tDii after that, when half was over, I'd say,
' Now, gentlemen, the better part is to come,
anil if you make it worth my while, I go on
^'h this here entertainment;' then, perhaps,
thi:-}''d give me two sliillings more. I've done
l>ad and done good in the country. In one
day I've taken two pounds five shillings, and
itiany days we've not taken eight shillings, and
there was four of us, me and my two brothers
and the drummer, who had two-and-sixpence
a-day, and a pot of beer besides. Take one
week 'R'ith another we took regular twopoimds
five shillings, and out of that I'd send from
twenty to thirty shillings a-week home to my
parents. Oh, I've been very good to my
parents, and I've never missed it. I've been
a wild boy too, imd yet I've always takon care
of father and mother. They've had twehe in
family and never a stain on their character,
I nor never a key turned on them, but aio up-
right and honourable people.
** At a idace called Erenfurd in Norfolk —
where there's such a lot of wild rabbits — we
done so well, that we took a room and had bills
printed and put out. We charged threepence
each, and the room was crowded, for wo shared
twenty-five shillings between us. When the
people see'd me and my brothers come on
dressed all in red, and tumble about, they actu-
ally swore we were devils, and rushed out of
the place ; so tliat, though there was a room fuU,
there was only two stopped to see the perform-
tmces. One old man called out, *0 wenches'
' — tlicy call their wives wenches — 'come out,
they be devils.' We came out with red faces
and horns and red dresses, and away they
went screaming. There was one woman
.trampled on and a child knocked out of her
arms. In some of these country towns they're
shocking strict, and never having seen any-
thing of the kind, they're scared directly.
" About six months ago I went to Woolwich
with the boys, and there was a chap that
wanted to fight me, because I wouldn't go
along with him. So, I says, *We won't have no
fighting ; ' so I went along with him to Graves-
end, and then we asked permission of the
mayor, 'cos in country towns we often have to
ask the mayor to let us go performing in the
streets. There we done very well, taking
twenty-five shillings in the day. Then we
worked up by Chatham, and down to Heme-
bay, and Ramsgate; and at Rarasgate we
stopped a week, doing uncommon well on the
sands, for the peo}de on the chairs would give
sixi>ence and a shilling, and say it was very
clever, and too clever to be in the streets. We
did Margate next, and then Deal, and on to
Dover by the boaL At Dover, the mayor
wouldn't let us perform, and snid if he catchcd
us in the streets he'd have us took up. We
were very hard up. So I said to Sam, * You
must go out one way and I and Johnny the
other, and busk in the public-house.' Sam got
eight shillings and sixpence and I four shil-
lings. But I had a row with a sailor, and I
was bruised and had to lay up. TVlien I was
better we moved to Folkestone. There was
the German soldiers there, and we did very
weU. I went out one day with our carpet to a
village close by, and some German officers
made us perform, and gave us five shillings,
and then we went the n)und of the beer-shops,
and altogether we cleared five pounds before
we finished tliat day. We also went up to the
camp, where the tents was, and I asked tlie
colonel to let me perform before the men, and
98
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
he said, ' Well it ain't Qsaal, but yoa may if
you like.' The officers we fotmd was so pleased
they kept on giving us two-shilling pieces,
and besides we had a lot of foreign coiQ,
which we sold to a jeweller for ten shillings.
" I worked my way on to Canterbury and
Winchester, and then, by a deal, of persuasion
I got permission to perform in the back-streets,
and we done very weU. Then we went on to
Southampton. There was a cattle fair, on —
Celse> fair is, I think, the name of it; and
then I joined another troupe of tumblei^and
we worked the fair, and after that went oKto
Southampton ; and when we began working on
the Monday, there was another troupe work-
ing as welL After we had pitched once or
twice, this other troupe came and pitched
opposition against us. I couldn't believe it
at first, but when I see which was their lay,
then says I, * Now I'll settle this.' We was here,
as it was, and they came right on to us — there,
as it may be. So it was our dinner-time, and
we broke up and went off. After dinner we
came out again, and pitched the carpet in a
square, and they came close to us again, and
as soon as they struck up, the people run
away to see the new ones. So I said * I don't
want to ii^iire them, but they shan't injure us.'
So I walked right into the middle of their ring,
and threw down the carpet, and says I, * Now,
ladies and gentlemen, the best performance is
the one that deserves best support, and 111
show you what I can do.' I went to work
with the boys, and was two hours doing all my
tumbling tricks. They was regularly stunned.
The silver and the balance covered ^e
carpet right over, as much as it would hold.
I think there was three pojunds. Then I
says, * Now you've seen the tumbling, now see
the perche.' They had a perche, too ; it was
taller than mine ; but, as I told them, it was
because I couldn't get no higher a one. So
I went to work again, and cries I, *Now, both
boys up ; ' though I had only stood one on up to
that time, and had never tried two of 'em.
Up they gets, and the first time they come
over, but never hurt theirselves. It was new
to me, you see. * Up again, lads,' says I ; and
up they goes, and did it beautiftd. The
people regular applauded, like at a theatre.
Down came the money in a shower, and one
gentleman took his hat round, and went col-
lecting for us. Says I to this other school,
* You tried to ii^jure us, and what have you
got by it? I beat you in tumbling, and if you
can match the perche, do it.' Then they says,
* We didn't tiy to injure you; come and drink
a gallon of beer.' So off we went, and the
police told 'em to choose their side of the
town and we would take ours. That settled
the opposition, and we both done well.
"I've done the Risley in the streets of
London, more so than at theatres and con-
certs. The stone paving don't hurt so much
as you would think to lie down. We don't do
it
di£forence whatsumever in Bptinging off the
stones. It pays very well at times, you
know ; but we don't like to do it often, because
afterwards they dont like to appreciate yon
in concerts and theatres, and likewise penny
exhibitions.
" My brother Sam can jump like a frog, on
his hands, through his legs, out of a one-pair
window; and little Johnny throws out of a
one-pair-of-8tairs window a back summerset.
'* It's astonishing how free the bones get bj
practice. My broUier Sam can dislocate his
umbs and replace them again; and when
sleeping in bed, I very often find him lying
with his legs behind his neck. It's quite
accidental, and done without knowing, and
comes natural to him, fh>m being alwsya
tumbling. Myself, I often in my dreams often
frighten my wife by starting up and half
throwing a summersault, fancying I'm at the
theatre, and likewise I often lie with my heels
against my head.
'* We are the only family or persons going
about the streets doing the Risley. I've
travelled all through England, Scotland, and
Wales, and I don't know anybody but our-
selves. When we perform in the London
theatres, which we do when we can get an
engagement, we get six or seven poimds a-
week between us. We've appeared at the
Pa>'ilion two seasons running; likewise at
the City of London, and the Standard, and
also all the cheap concerts in London. Then
we are called ' The Sprites ' by the Nelson
family will appear ; • or, The Sprites of Jupiter;'
or,'Sons of Cerea;' or,* Air-climbers of Arabia!'
** Taking all the year round, I dare say my
income comes to about thirty-five shillings or
two pounds, and out' of that I have to find
dresses.*
Tub STROMa Man.
** I HIVE been in the profession for about thir-
teen years, and I am thirty-two next birthday.
Excepting four years that I was at sea, I've
been solely by the profession. I'm what is
termed a strong man, and perform feats of
strength and posturing. What is meant by
posturing is the distortion of the limbs, such
as doing the splits, and putting your leg over
your head and pulling it down your bock, a
skipping over your leg, and such-Uke business.
Tumbling is different from, posturing, and
means throwing summersets and walking on
your hands; and acrobating means the two
together, with mounting three stories high,
and balancing each other. These are the
definitions I make.
** I was nineteen before I did anything of any
note at all, and got what I call a living; salary.
Long before that I had been trying tiie busi-
ness, going in and out of these f^e concerts,
and trying my hand at it, fancying I was very
clever, but disgusting the audience, for they
when it's muddy. The boys finds no I are mostly dulfers at these f^ree concerts;
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
90
rbich is clearly the case, for they only do it
for a pint every now and then, and depend
upon passing the hat round after their per-
formance. I never got mach at collections, so
I mast have been a duffer.
** My father is an architect and builder, and
his income now is never less than a thousand
ijear. Like a fool, I wouldn't go into his
office : I wish I had. I preferred going to sea.
I was always hankering after first one vessel
and then another. I used to be fond of going
down to the docks, and such-hke, and looking
a the vessels. Pd talk with the sailors about
foreign countries, and such-like, and my am-
bition was to be a sailor. I was the scabby
sheep of the family, and I've been punished
for it. I never went into the governor's
office ; but when I was about fourteen I was
put trj a stonemason, for I thought I should
like to be a carver, or something of that sort.
I was two years there, and I should have done
very well if I had stayed, for I earned a
guinea o-wcek when I left.
' " Before I went to the stonemason I was at
the Victoria, taking checks — when there was
aoT. I had an uncle there who kept the saloon
there. I was always very partial to going to
the theatre, for all our people are chapel peo-
ple, and that I never liked. My father's par-
bur is always smothered with ministers, and
mine with tumblers, and that's the difference.
I Qsed to go and see my uncle at the Yic, so
•s to get to the theatre for nothing. I wasn't
paid fbr taking the checks, but I knew the
eheck-taker, and he'd ask me to help him, and
I was too glad to get inside a theatre to refuse
the job. They were doing dreadful business.
It was under Levi, and before Glossop's time.
It was before the glass curtain come out. The
glass curtain was a splendid thing. It went
straight up, never wound. You can even now
see where the roof was highered to receive it.
Levi has got the Garrick now. They say he's
Bot doing much.
** The first thing I did was at a little beer-
shop, comer of Southwark-bridge-road and
Union -street. I had seen Herbert do the
Grecian statues at the Vic, in * Hercules,
King of Clubs,' and it struck me I could do
'em. So I knew this beer- shop, and I bought
hilf-a-crown's worth of tickets to be allowed
to do these statues. It was on a boxing-night,
I remember. I did them, but tliey were
dreadful bad. The people did certainly ap-
plaud, but what for, I don't know, for I kept
shaking and wabbling so, that my marble
statue was rather ricketty; and there was a
strong man in the room, who had been per-
forming them, and he came up to me and said
that I was a complete duffer, and that I knew
nothing about it at all. So I replied, that he
knew nothing about his feats of strength, and
that I'd go and beat him. So I set to work at
it ; for I was determined to lick him. I got
five quarter-of-hundred weights, and used to
practice throwing them at a friend's back-yard
in the Waterloo-road. I used to make myself
all over mud at it, besides having a knock of
the head sometimes. At last I got perfect
chucking the quarter hundred, and then I tied
a fourteen pound weight on to them, and at
last I got up half-hundreds. I learnt to hold
up one of them at arm's length, and even tlien
I was obliged to push it up with the other
hand. I idso threw them over my head, as
well as catching them by the ring.
"I went to this beer-shop as soon as I
could do, and came out. I wasn't so good as
he was at lifting, but that was all he could do ;
and I did posturing with the weights as well,
and that licked him. He was awfully jealous,
and I had been revenged. I had learnt to do
a split, holding a half-hundred in my teeth,
and rising with it, ^vithout touching the
ground with my hands. Now I can li^ five,
for I've had more practice. I had tremendous
success at this beer-shop.
** It hurt me awftilly when I learnt to do the
split with the weight on my teeth. It strained
me all to pieces. I couldn't put my heels to
the ground not nicely, for it physicked my
thighs dreadful. When I was hot I didn't
feel it; but as I cooled, I was cramped all to
bits. It took me nine months before I could
do it without feeling any pain.
" Another thing I learnt to do at this beer-
shop was, to break the stone on the chest.
This man used to do it as well, only in a very
shght way — with thin bits and a cobbler's
hammer. Now mine is regular flagstones.
I've seen as many as twenty women faint
seeing me do it. At this beer-shop, when I first
did it, the stone weiglied about three quarters
of a hundred, and was an inch thick. I laid
down on the ground, and the stone was put on
my chest, and a man with a sledge hammer,
twenty-eight pounds weight, struck it and
smashed it. The way it is done is this. You
rest on your heels and hands and throw your
chest up. There you are, like a stool, i^ith
the weight on you. When you see the blow
coming, you have to give, or it would knock
you all to bits.
" When I was learning to do this, 1 prac-
tised for nine months. I got a friend of mine
to hit the stone. One day I cut my chest
open doing it. I wasn't paying attention to
the stone, and never noticed that it was hol-
low ; so then when the blow came down, the
sharp edges of the stone, from my having
nothing but a fleshing suit on, cut right into
the flesh, and made two deep incisions. I hod
to leave it off for about a month. Strange
to say, this stone-breaking never hurt my
chest or my breathing ; I rather think it has
done me good, for I'm strong and hearty, and
never have illness of any sort.
" The first time I done it I was dreadful
frightened. I knew if I didn't stop still I
should have my brains knocked out, pretty
well. When I saw the blow coming I trembled
a good bit, but I kept still as I was able. It
100
£ONI>OIf LABOUR AND THE LONDOIT POOR.
WAS a hard blow, Ibr it broke fhe bit of Toric-
shire paving, about an inch thick, into about
sixty pieces.
" I got very hard up whilst I was perform-
ing at this beer-shop. I had run away from
home, and the performances were only two
nights a-week, and brought me in about six
shillings. I wasn't engaged anywhere else.
One night, a Mr. Bmanuel, who had a benefit
at the Salmon Saloon, Union-street, asked mc
to appear at his benefit. He hod never seen
me, but only heard of my performances. I
agreed to go, and he got out the bills, and
christened me Signer C ; and he hod
drawings mfuie of the most extravagant kind,
with me holding' my arms out with about ten
fifty-six- pound weights hanging to them by
the rings. Ho had the weights, hamraerH,
and a tremen<ious big stone chained outside
the door, and there us«d to bo mobs of people
there all day long looking at it
*' This was the first success I made. Mr.
Emanuel gave five shillings for the stone, and
had it brought up to the saloon by two horses
in a cart to make a sensation. It weighed
fVom four to five hundred weight I think I
had such a thing as five men to lift it up
for me.
" I had forgotten all about this engagement^
and I was at the coffee-house where I lodged.
The fact was, I was in rags, and so shabby I
didn't like to go, and if he hadn't come to
fetch me I should not have gone. He drove
up in his chaise on the night in question to
this coffee-shop, and he says, * Signer C ,
make haste ; go and change your clothes, and
come along.' I didn't know at first he was
speaking to me, for it was the first time I had
been Signer C . Then I told him I had
got my best suit on, though it was very ragged ,
and no mistake about it for I remember there
was a good hole at each elbow. He seemed
astonished, and at last proposed that I should
wear his great-coat ; but I wouldn't, because,
as I told him, his coat would be as well
known at the saloon as he himself vma, and
tlmt it didn't suit me to be seen in another's
clothes. So he took me just as I was. When
we got there, the landlady was regularly flab-
bergastered to see a ragged fellow like me
come to be star of the night. She'd hardly
speak to me.
•' There was a tremendous house, and they
had turned above a hundred away. When I
got into the saloon, Emanuel says, 'Wbat'U
you have to drink ?' I said, ' Some brandy ; '
but my landlord of the coffee-house, who had
come unbeknown to me, he grumbles out,
* Ask him what he'll have to eat, for he's had
nothing since the slice of bread-and-butter for
breakfast.' I trod on his toe, and 8a3rs,
*Keep quiet, you fool!' Emanuel behaved
like a regular brick, and no mihtake. He
paid for the supper and everything. I was
regularly ashamed when the landlord let it
out though. That supper put life into me, |
for it almost had the same eflbot npon me as
drink.
** It soon got whispered about in the saloon
that I was the strong man, and everybody got
handing me their glasses ; so I was regularly
tipsy when it was time to go on, and they had
put me off to the last on purpose to draw the
people and keep them there drinking.
" I had a regular success. When the women
saw the five men put the stone on my diest,
they all of them called out, * Don't! don't!'
It was a block like a curb, about a foot thidc,"
and about a four feet six inches long. I went
with Bmanuel to buy it I had never tried
such a big one before, It didn't feel so heavy
on the diest for, you see, you've got such out-
and-out good support on your hands and
heels. I've actually seen one man raise a
stone and another a waggon. If s the purchase
done it I've lifted up a cart-horse right off
his legs.
** The stone broke after six blows with a
twenty-eight pomid sledge-hammer. Then
you should have heard the applause. I thought
it would never give over. It smashed all to
atoms, just like glass, and there was the
people taking away the bits to keep as a rs*
membrance.
''As I went out the landlady asked me tt>
have a bottle of soda-water. The landlady
was frightened, and told me she had felt sure
I should be killed. I was the second that
ever done stone-breaking in England or
abroad, and I'm the first that ever did such a
big one. The landlady was so alarmed that
she wouldn't engage me, for she said I must be
killed one of the nights. Her behaviour waa
rather different as I went out to when I
came in.
" I, of courne, didn't go on in my rags. I
had a first-rate stage dress.
" After this grand appearance I got engaged
at Gravesend fair by Middleton, and there I
had eight sliilliugs a-dny, and I stopped with
him three weeks over the fair. I used to do
my performances outside on the parade, never
inside. I haii to do the stone -breaking about
nine or ten times a-day. They were middling
stones, some larger and some smaller, and the
smaller ones about half-a-hundrcd weight, I
suppose. Any man might bring his stone and
hammer, and break it himself. The one who
struck was generally chosen from the crowd ;
the biggest chap they could find. I've heard
'em say to me, * Now, old chap, I'll smash you
all to bits; so look out!' The fact is, the
harder they strike the better for me, for it
smashes it at once, and don't keep the people
in suspense.
" It was at Gravesend that I met with my
second and last accident With the cutting oif
the chest, it is the only one I ever had. The
feller who come up to break the stone was
half tipsy and missed his aim, and obliged me
by hitting my finger instead of the stone. I
said to bun, * Mind what yon are doing,' but
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOH.
101
I popped my hand behind me, and when I
got 19 X eonldn't make out what the people
m oyisg oat about, till I looked round at
Bj back and then I was smothered in blood.
Middleton said, *Good Godl what's the
Batterer' and I told him I was hit on the finger.
When the cry was givan of 'All in to begin,' I
vent into a booth doae by and had some
ItaoG^, and got a doctor to strap up the
flngezvand then I went on witii the parade
bo^nesa jnat the same, it didn't pain me
nothing like what I should have thought. It
wia too hard a knock to jwin me much. The
only time I felt it was when the doctor dressed
it, iiar it gare me pepper taking the plaster off.
"I was at Gravesend some time, and I went
to work again stone>masoning, and I had a
guinea a- week, and in the evening I used to
porfbrm at the Kosc Inn. I did just as I liked
there. I never cliarged 'em anything. I
lived in the house and they never charged mc
iBytbinfr. It was a first-rate house. If I
vaated five shillings Td get it from the land-
luid. I was there about eleven months, and
ill that time I Uved there and paid nothing.
I had a benefit there, and tliey wouldn't even
durge me for printing the bills, or cords, or
tnything. It was (piite a clear benefit^ and
evez>' penny taken at the doors was givon to
ma. I chtirged a shilling adniiitance, and tlie
room wab cmwded, and they was even on the
aairs standing tip-toe to look at me. I wanted
some weights, and usked a butcher to lend 'em
to me, and he says, *■ Lend 'cm to you! aye, take
the machine and all if it'll serve you.' I was
a great favourite, as you may guess.
'^ After Gravesend I come up to London, and
vent and played the monkey at the Bower
Saloon. It was tho first time I had done it.
There was all the monkey business, jumping
oier tables and chairs, and all mischievous
thmgs ; and there was climbing up trees, and
ip two perpendicular ropes. I was dressed
in a monkey's dress ; it's made of some of
their hearth-rugs ; and my face was painted.'
h's very difficult to paint a monkey's face.
Tve a great knack tliat way, and can always
BUnage anything of that sort.
** From the Bower I went on to Portsmouth.
Td got hard up again, for I'd been idle for
three months, for I couldn't get any money,
nd I never appear under price. I walked all
die way to Portsmouth, carrying a half-bun-
Jnd weight, besides my dress, oU tlie way ; I
played at the top-rooms on the road. I did
pretty middling, earned my living on tho road,
•bout two shillings a-day. When I got to
Poitsmouth I did get a job, and a good job it
WIS, only one shilling and sixpence a-night ;
hot I thought it better to do that than nothing.
I only did comic singing, and I only knew two
Mogs, but I set to f|nd learnt a lot. I am very
eonrtgeoufl, and if I can't get my money one
wiy, fwill another. With us, if you've got a
shHling, you're a fool if you spend that before
70a have another. I stopped at this public-
house fbr two months, and then a man who
came from Portsea, a town dose by, oame
one night, and he asked me what I was doing.
He had heard of what I could do, and he
offered me two pounds a-week to go with him
and do the stanong business. He kept the Star
Inn at Portsea. I stopped there such a thing
as two years, and I did welL I had great sue-
cess, for the place was cramm'd every night.
For my benefit, Major Wyatt and Captain
HoUoway gave me their bespeak, and permis-
sion for the men to come. The admission was
sixpence. Half tlie regiment marched down,
and there was no room for the public. I was
on the stage for two huurs during my perform-
ances. I was tired, and fainted away as dead
as a hammer oiler the curtain feU.
** Among other things I announced that I
should, whilst suspended from the ceiling, lift
a horse. I had this horse paraded about the
towii for a week before my night. There was
such a house that numbers of people was
turned away, and a comic singer who was per-
forming at a house opposite, he put out an
announcement that he too would lift a horse,
and when the time come he brought on a
cloUies -horse.
" The way I did the horse was this : I was
hanging by my ankles, and the horse was on
a kiudofpLufunn under me. I had two sheets
rolled up and tied round the horse like belly-
bands, and then I passed my arms through
them and strained him up. I didn't keep bun
long in the air, only just lifted him off his
legs. In the midst of it the bandage got off
his eyes, and then, what with tho music and
the applauding, the poor brute got frightened
and begun plunging. I couldn't manage him
at all whilst he was kicking. He got his two
hind legs over tho orchestra and knocked all
the fioat-lights out. They kept roaring, * Bring
him out ! bring him out ! ' as if they thought I
was going to put him under my arm — a Uiun-
dering big brute. I was afraid he'd crack his
knees, and I should have to pay for him. The
fiddler was rather uneasy, I con tell you, and
the people began shifting about. I was frights
ened, and so I managed to pop port of the
sheet over his head, and then I gave a tremen-
dous strain and brought him bacOc again.
" How tlie idea of lifting a horse ever came
into my head, I don't know. It came in a
minute ; I hod never tried it before. I knew
I should have a tremendous purchase. The
fact is, I had intended to do a swindle by
having lines passed down my dress, and for
somebody behind to pull the ropes and help
me. The town was in an uproar when I an-
nounced I should do it
** It was at my benefit that I first broke stones
with my fist. I don't know whose original
notion it was. I was not the first ; there's a
trick in it. It's done this way : anybody can
do it. You take a cobbler's lapstone, and it's
put on a half-hundred weight; you must hold
it half an in^h above, and then the concnssion
IM
LQKIHiN LABOUR AND THE LOKDOIT
then a fellow must be no good if he doesn't
pay for the third when it comes, and the
day's money don't nm to it, and you're in a
hole.-
The Stbeet Juooleb.
Thx juggler fh)m whom 1 reoehred the follow-
ing account, was spoken of by his companions
and friends as ** one of the deyerest that ever
came out" He was at this time performing
in the evening at one of the»chief saloons on
the other side of the water.
He certainly appears to ^ave been sucoess-
ftil enough when he first appeared in the
streets, and the way in which he squandered
the amount of money ho then made w a con-
stant source of misexy to him, for he kept ex-
claiming in the midst of his narmtive, ** Ah !
I might have been a gentleman now, if I
hadn't been the fool I was then."
As a proof of his talents and success he
assured me, that when Bamo Samee first came
out, he not only learned how to do all the In-
dian's tricks, but also did tliem so dexterously,
that when travelling **Samee has often paid
him ten shillings not to perfonn in the same
town with him."
He was a short man, with iron-grey hair,
which had been shaved high upon the temples
to allow him to assume iho Indian costume.
The skin of the face was curiously loose, and
formed deep lines about the chin, whilst in
the cheeks there were dimples, or rather
hollows, almost as deep as tiiose on a sofd
cushion. He had a singular look, from his
eyebrows and eyes being so black.
His hands were small and delicate, and
when he took up anything, he did it as if he
were lifting the cup with the ball under it
" I'm a juggler," he said. " but I don't know
if that's the right term, for some people call
conjurers jugglers ; but it's wrong. When I
was in Ireland they called me a " mannlist,"
and it was a gentleman wrote the bill out
for me. The dififeronce I makes between
colouring and juggling is, one's deeei\'ing to
the eye and the other's pleasing to the eye
— yes, that's it — it's dexterity.
" I dare say I've been at juggling 40 years,
for I was between 14 and 15 when I begun,
and I'm 50 now. I remember Hamo Samee
and all the first process of the art. He was
the first as ever I knew, and very good indeed ;
there was no otlier to oppose him, and he
must have been good then. I suppose I'm
the oldest juggler alive.
" My father was a whitesmith, and kept a
shop in the Waterloo-road, and I ran away
tram him. There was a man of the name of
Humphreyskeptariding-schoolintheWaterloo-
road (there was very few houses there then,
only brick-fields — aye, what is the Victoria
theatre now was then a pin-factory and a
hatter's; it wasn't opened for performance
then), and I used to. go to this riding-school
and practise tumbling when the horse-dung
was thrown out, tar X was voy 'ambii
be a tnmbler. When I used to go
here dung-heap, sometimas father won
me to blow the fire or strike for fa:
he'd come after me and catch me tu
and take off his apron and wallop mi
all the way home; and the leather strix
to hurt, I can tell you.
^I first went to work at the pin-
when* the Coburg's built now, and <
tumbling then. Then I went to a ha
Oakley-street, and there I took to ti
again, and usod to get practising on tl
packs (they made the hats then out
stuff and h ore-skins, and such-like, i
couldn't get a hat then imder 25«.) ; I
get my heart away from tumbling all 1
I was there, for it was set on it 1
begin tumbling when I went out .on <
doing hnnd-spring, and starts-up (that
on your back and throwing yourself t
roimd-alls (that's throwing yourself ba
on to your hands and back again to yo'
and walking on my hands. I never
of the men see me practise. I had t
the warehouse up, and all the wool wu
and I used to have a go to myself
morning before they was up.
*^ The iray I got into my profesaiona
was this: I used to have to go and
men's beer, for I was kept for that ^
I had to go to the men's homes to fet
breakfasts, and the dinners and 1
wish I had such a place now. The in
me a shilling a-week, and there was t
them when in full work, and the maal
me 45. Qd. Besides that they never
on a Monday, but I was told to feU
food just the same, so that their wives a
know; and I had all their twelve
breakfasts, and so on. I kept abont ai
boys there, and anybody might have the
that liked, for I've sometimes put 'em c
for somebody to find.
**I was one day going to fetch thi
beer when I meets another boy, and 1
* You can't walk on your hands.' * Cant
I, and 1 puts down tlie cans and off I
and walked on my hands from one en
stieet to the other, prettj- nigh. Mr. 5
the rider, one of the oldest riders t
(before Dur row's time, for Duorow
'prentice of his, and he allowed Sand
a-week for all his lifetime), was pas
and he see me walking on my Iiands,
come up and snys, * My boy, where
l>eloug to ?' and I answers, * My fathc
then he says, *Do you think he'd
come along with me?' I told him I'^
ask ; and I ran off, but never ^
father — you'll understand — and th(
minute or ti^o I came back and said,
says yes, I may go when I thinks ]
and then Mr. Sanders took me to
fields, and there was a gig, and he di
down to Ware, in Hertfordshire.
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOH.
105
n
*Yoammj as well soj this here. The dr-
coMt at that time wasn't as they are now.
Tbey used to call it in the profession moulding,
aid the public termed it mountebanking.
Moulding was making a ring in a field, for
thoe was no booths then, and it comes from
£gging up the mould to make it soft for the
bocses' feet. There was no charge for seeing
the ezhibitiun, for it was in a field open to
the public ; but it was worked in this way :
these was prizes giren away, and the tickets
to the lottery were Is. each, and most of the
people bought 'em, though they weren't ob-
figaled to do so. Sometimes the prizes would
he a fiTe-pound note, or a silver watch,
Miybe, or a sack of flour, or a pig. They used
t»take the tickets round in a hat, and ever}*-
body saw what they drawed. They was all
ywei peihaps a penny ring — but there was
BO blanks. It was the last night that paid
heat The first and second nights Sanders
voald giye them a first-rate prize ; but when
the last night came, then a half-crown article
laa the highest he'd give away, and that
helped to draw up. I've know'd him give 4/. or
iL away, when he'd not taken 2/. Mr. Sanders
pat me to tumbling in the ring. I could tumble
w^ before I went with him, for I'd practised
€Q this dung-heap, and in this hatter's shop.
I beat all his apprentices wliat he had. He
tidnt give me anything a- week, only my keep,
hot I was glad to run away and be a showman.
I was Texy sncoessful in the riDg-tumbling, and
fnm that I got to be clever on the stilts and on
the elack-rope, or, as they call it in the pro-
kmaQf the waulting-rope. "When I was ragged
I lead to mn home again and get some clothes.
tm BUBiy a time scon him burst out into
tem to see me come home so ragged. * Ah,'
Wdasy, 'where have you been now? — tum-
Vfing, I suppose.' I'd answer, ' Yes, father ; '
lad then he'd say, * Ah, your tumbling will
I hoBg yon to the gallows.' I'd stop with him
' tin he gave me some fresh clothes, and then
I Id holt again. You see I liked it. I'd go and
4e it (or nothing. Now I dread it ; but it's
= too late, unfortunately.
" I ran away from Sanders at last, and went
baek to father. One night I went to the
theatoe, and there I see Ramo Samee doing his
j jecgUng, and in a minute I forgot all about
' the tomhling, and only wanted to do as he did.
Directly I got home I got two of the plates,
ttd went into a back-room and began prac
tinog, making it turn round on the top of a
ttich. I broke nearly all the plates in the
liOQse doing this — that is, what I didn't break
I I cracked. I broke the entire set of a dozen
I ptites, and yet couldn't do it ^Vhen mother
' toond all her plates cracked, she said, *lt'8
thtt boy;' and I had a good hiding. Then 1
Ftt on my Sunday suit and bolted away again.
• lahrays bolted in my best clothes. I then
j Vtti about tumbling in the public-houses, till I
I ^ got money enough to have a tin plate made
^ a deep rim, and with this tin plate I learnt
it, so thati could afterwards do it with a crockery
one. I kept on my tumbling till I got a set of
wooden baUs turned, and I stuck brass coffin-
nails all over them, ao that they looked like
metal when they was up; and I began teach-
ing myself to chuck them. It took a long time
learning it, but I was fond of it, and deter-
mined to do it I was doing pretty well with
my tumbling, making perhaps my 9s, or 4j.
a-night^ so I was pretty well off. Then I got
some tin knives made, and leamt to throw
them: and I bought some iron rings, and
bound them with red and blue tape, to make
them look handsome ; and I leamt to toss tliem
the same as the bolls. I practised balancing
pipes, too. Phery time I went into a public
house I'd take a pipe away, so it didn't cost me
anything. I dare say I was a twelvemonth
before I could juggle well. When I could
throw the three balls middling tidy I used to do
them on the stilts, and that was more than ever
a man attempted in them days ; and yet I was
only sixteen or seventeen years of age. I must
have been summut then, for I went to Oxford
fair, and there I was on my stilts, chuckuig my
balls in the public streets, and a gentleman
came up to me and asked me if I'd take an en-
gagement, and I said * Yes, if it was a good
un* — for I was taking money like smoke ; and
he agreed to give me a pound a-day during the
fair; it was a week fair. I had so much
money, I didn't know what to do with it. ^ I
actually went and bought a silk neckerchief
for every day in the week, and flash boots, and
caps, and everything I could see, for I never had
so much money as in them days. The master,
too, mode his share out of me, for he took
money like dirt
" From Oxford I worked my way over to Ire-
land. I had got my hand into juggling now,
but I kept on with my old apparatus, though
I bought a new set in Dublin. I used to have
a bag and bit of carpet, and perform in streets.
I had an Indian's drc'ss made, with a long
horse-hair tail down my back, and white bag-
trousers, trimmed with red, like a Turk's, tied
right roimd at the ankles, and a flesh-coloured
skull-cap. My coat was what is called a
Turkish fly, in red velvet, cut off like a waist-
coat, with a peak before and behind. I was a
regular swell, and called myself the Indian
Juggler. I used to perform in the barracks
twice a-day, morning and evening. I used to
make a heap of money. I have taken, in one
pitch, more than a pound. I dare say I've
taken 91, a-day, and sometimes more indeed ;
I've saved a waggon and a booth there, —
a very nice one, — and the waggon cost mo
14/. second-hand; one of Vickiy's it was, a
wild-beast waggon. I dare say I was six
months in Dublin, doing first-rate. My per-
formances was just the same then as they is
now ; only I walked on stilts, and they was
new then, and did the business. I was the
first man ever seed m Ireland, either juggling
or on the stilts.
>o. I.Xl.
R
106
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
** I had a drain and pipes, and I nsed to play
them myself. I played any tmie, — anythink,
just what I could think of, to draw the crowd
together; then I'd moimt the stilts and do
what I called * a drunken fh)lic,' with a bot-
tle in my fcandf tumbling about and pretending
to be drmik. Then I'd chuck the balls a.
bout, and the knives, and the rings, and twirl
the plate. I wound ttp with the ball, throwing
it in the air and catching it in a cup. I didnt
do any balancing pipes on my nose, not
whilst on the stilts.
. ** I used to go out one day on the stilts
and one on the ground, to do the balancing.
I'd balance pipes, straws, peacocks' feathers,
and the twirling plate.
** It took me a long time learning to catch
the ball in the cup. I practised in the fields
or streets; anywhere. I began by just
throwing the ball a yard or two in the air, and
then went on gradually. The first I see do
the ball was a man of the name of Dussang,
who came over with Ramo Samee. It's a
very dangerous feat, and even now I'm never
safe of it, for the least wind will blow it to the
outside, and spoil the aim. I broke my nose
at Derby races. A boy ran across the ring,
and the ball, which weighs a quarter of a
pound, was coming right on him, and would
have follen on his head, and perhaps killed
him, and I ran forward to save him, and
couldnt take my aim proper, and it fell on
mv nose, and broke it. It bled awftdly, and
it kept on for near a month. There happened
to be a doctor looking on, and he came and
plastered it up ; and then I chucked the ball
up again, (for I didn't care what I did in them
days), and the strain of its coming down
made it burst out again. They actually gived
me money not to tlu'ow the bidl up any more.
I got near a sovereign, in silver, give me from
the Grand Stand, for that accident.
•* At Newcastle I met with another accident
with throwing the ball. It came down on
my head, and it regularly stunned me, so that
I fell dowui It swelled up, and every minute
got bigger, till I a'most thought I had a dou-
ble heM, for it felt so heavy I could scarce
hold it up. I was obliged to knock off work
for a fortnight.
^ In Ireland I nsed to make the people
laugh, to throw up raw potatoes and let them
come down on my naked forehead and smash.
People give more money when they laugh.
No, it never hurt my forehead, it's got har-
dened ; nor I never suffered fiom headaches
when I was practicing.
** As you catch the ball in the cup, you are
obliged to give, you know, and bend to it,
or it would knock the brains out of you pretty
well. I never heard of a man killing himself
with the ball, and iVe only had two accidents.
'< I got married in Ireland, and then I started
off wiSi the booth and waggon, and she used
to dance, and I'd juggle and balance. We
went to the fairs, but it didn't answer, and
we lost all ; for my wife turned out a very bad
sort of woman. She's dead now, through
drink. I went to the Isle of Man from Ii««
land ; I had practised my wife in the stilti*
and learnt her how to use them, and we dia
well there. They never see such a thing in
their lives, and we took money like dirL
They christened us the ' Manx Giants.' If my
wife had been like my present one, I should
be a made gentleman by this time ; but she
drank away my booth, and waggon, and hone,
and all.
'* I saved up about 20/. in the Isle of Man 7
and from there we went to Scotland, and thero
my wife died, — through drink. That tcK>k a-
way all the money I had saved. Wtf didnt
do much in Scotland, only in one particular
town, — that's Edinburgh, — on New-year%
day. We took a good deal of money, 21. I
think; and we carried coppers about in •
stocking with me.
** I travelled about in England and Wales
when I married my second wife. She's •
strong woman, and lifts 700 lbs. by the hair
of her head.
•* When I got back to London I hadnt %■
shilling in my pocket, thqagh my wife wb»
very eareftil of me ; but times got bad, and
what not. We got a situation at 12«. a day,
and all collections, at Stepney fair, whidi
would sometimes come to a pound, and at
others 30s. ; for collections is better than sa-
lary any days : that set us up in a litUe house,
which we've got now.
«* I'm too old now to go out regularly in the
streets. It tires me too much, if I have to 1^
r;ar at a penny theatre in the evening. Whctt
do go out in the streets, I carry a mahogaqy
box with me, to put my things out in. IN©
got three sets of things now, knives, balliiy
and cups. In fact, I never was so well off ia
apparatus as now ; and many of them have
been given to me as presents, by friends M
have gi'n over performing. Knives, and bal]%
and all, are very handsome. The balls, some
a pound, and some 2 lbs. weight, and the
knives about 1 4 lbs.
** When I'm out performing, I get into all
the open places as I can. I goes up the Com-
mercial-road and pitches at the Mile>end.gatfl^
or^ about Tower-lull, or such-like. I'm widl
known in London, and the police knows me so
well they very seldom interfere with me»
Sometimes they say, * That's not allowed, yon
know, old man I " and I say, *■ I shan't be above
two or three minutes,' and they say, * Make
haste, then !" and then I go on with the per-
formance.
"I think I'm the cleverest juggler out. I
can do the pagoda, or the canopy as some calls
it ; that is a thing like a parasol balanced bj
the handle on my nose, and the sides held op
by other sticks, and then with a pea-shooter I
blow away the supports. I also do what te
called *the birds and bush,' which is some-
thing of the same, only you knock off the birdi
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
107
'vith m pea-shooter. The birds is only made
<tf eork, bat it's rery difficult, because you haye
to take your balance agin eyeiy bird as falls ;
besides, yon most be careftil the birds dont
itll in yonr eyes, or it woold take away your
sight and spoil the balance. The birds at
kitk are hardest to knock off, because you have
to bend back, and at the same time mind you
doDt topple the tree off.
''These are the only feats we perform in
tttlancing, and the juggUng is the same now
as ever it was, for there ain't been no improve-
ments Gvi the old style as I ever heerd on ; and
I suppose balls and knives and rings will last
iat a hundred years to come yet
*^I flod my wife are now engaged at the
*Templeof Mystery' in Old Street-road, and
it ssys on the bills that they are ' at present
exhibiting the following new and interesting
tilent,' and then they caUs me * The Renowned
Indian Juggler, performing his extraordinary
Feats with Cups, Balls, Daggers, Plates,
Xnives, Rings, Balancing, <S:c. &c:
** After the juggling I generally has to do
ecsguring. I does what they call *■ the pile of
Bsgs,' that is, putting four halfpence on a
hoffB cap, and making them disappear when I
taj • Presto, fly ! ' Then there's the empty
cops, and making 'taters come under 'em, or
there's bringing a cabbage into a empty hat
There's also making a shilling pass from a
gentleman's hand into a nest of boxes, and
taeh-like tricks : but it ain't half so hard as
joggling, nor anything like the work«
**! a^ my missis have 5s. 0(2. a-night be-
'tveen as, besides a collection among the com-
ptoy, which I reckon, on the average, to be as
good as another pound a-week, for we made
that the last week we performed.
* I should say there ain't above twenty jug-
t^ets in all England — indeed, I'm sure there
'Oit— such as goes about pitching in the
streets and towns. I know there's only four
ethers besides myself in London, unless some
new one has sprung up very lately. You may
safSely reckon their earnings for the year round
tt a pound a-week, that is, if they stick to
jngf^g; but most of us joins some other
camng along with juggling, such as the
l*s bunness, and that helps out the
** Before this year, I used to go down to the
aea-nde in the summer, and perform at the
watering-places. A chap by the name of
Ooidoii is at Ramsgate now. It pays well on
^ sands, for in two or three hours, accord-
ing to the tides, we picks up enough for the
day.-
The Stbxet Conjubeiu
''IcALC myself a wizard as well; but that's
only the poHte term for cox^urer ; in fact, I
mold think that wizard meant an astrologer,
•d more of a fortune-teller. I was fifteen
Jtears of age when I first began my profes-
•ooal Hfe ; indeed I opened with Gentleman
Cooke at the Rotunda, in BlackMaxs'-road,
and there I did Jeremiah Stitchem to his
Billy Button.
** My father held a very excellent situation
in the Customs, and lived at his ease, in very
affluent circumstances. His library ilone was
worth two hundred pounds. I waft only ten
years of age when my father died. He was a
vexy gay man, and spent his income to the
last penny. He was a veiy gay man, very gay.
After my mother was left a widow, the libraiy
was swept off for a year's rent I was too
young to understand it's value, and my mother
was in too much grief to pay attention to her
affairs. Another six-months' rent sold up the
furniture. We took a small apartment close
in the neighbourhood. My mother had no
means, and we were left to shift for ourselves.
I was a good boy, and determined to get some-
thing to do. The first day I went out I got
a situation at four shillings a-week, to mind
the boots outside a boot-maker's shop in
Newington Causeway. The very first week I
was there I was discharged, for I fell asleep
on my stool at the door, and a boy stole a
pair of boots. From there I went to a baker's,
and had to carry out the bread, and for four
years I got different employments, as errand
boy or anything.
*< For many years the mall opposite Bedlam
was filled with nothing else but shows and
show-people. All the caravans and swing-
boats, and what not, used to assemble there
Ull the next fan: was on. They didn't perform
there, it was only their resting-place. My
mother was living close by, and every oppor-
tunity I had I used to associate with the boys
belonging to the shows, and then I'd see them
practising their tumbling and tricks. I was
so fond of this that I got practising with these
boys. I'd go and point my face as clown, and
although dressed in my ordinary clothes I'd go
and tumble with the rest of the lads, until I
could do it as well as they could. I did it for
devilment, that's what I call it, and that it was
which first made me think of being a profes-
sional.
** From there I heard of a situation to sell
oranges, biscuits, and ginger-beer, at the
Surrey Theatre. It was under Elliston's
management I sold the porter up in the
gallery, and I had three-hal^cnce out of eveiy
shilling, and I could make one shilling and
sixpence a-night; but the way I used to do it
at that time was this : I went to fetch the beer,
and then I'd get half-a-gallon of table-beer
and mix it wiUi the porter; and I tell you,
I've made such a thing as fifteen shillings of
a boxing-night I alone could sell five gallons
of a night ; but then their pints at that time
was tin measures, and little more than half-a-
pint : besides, Td froth it up. It was three-
pence a pint, and a wonderful profit it must
have been. From there I got behind the
scenes as supernumerary, at the time Nelson
Lee was manager of the supers.
110
LONDON LABOUR AND TJm LONDON POOR.
to hear it, very much.' Then Fd offer to per-
form, if agreeable, to the company ; ofken the
party would offer to name it to the company,
and he'd call to the other side of the room,
(for they all know each other in these parlours)
* I say, Mr. So-and-so, have yon any objection
to this gentleman showing us a little amuse-
ment?' and they are all of them safe to say,
' Not in the least I'm perfectly agreeable if
others are so;' and then I'd begin. I'd pull
out my cards and card-boxes, and the bonus
genius or the wooden doll, and then I'd spread
a nice clean cloth (which I always carried with
me) on the table, and then I'd go to woric I
worked the dice by placing it on the top of a
hat, and with a penknife pretending to make
an incision in the crown to let the soUd block
pass through. It is done by having a tin
covering to the solid dice, and the art consists
in getting the solid block into the hat without
being seen. That's the whole of the trick. I
begin by striking the block to show it is solid.
Then I place two hats one on the other, brim
to brim. Then I slip the solid dice into the
under hat, and place the tin covering on the
crown of the upper one. Then I ask for a
knife, and pretend to cut the hat-crown the
size of the tin-con on the top, making a noise
by dragging my nail along the hat, which
closely resembles cutting with a knife. I've
often heard people say, *None of that!' think-
ing I was cutting their hat. Then I say, 'Now,
gentlemen, if I con pass this dice through the
crown into the hat beneath, you'll say it's a
very clever deception,' because all conjurers
acknowledge that they deceive ; indeed, I al-
ways say when I perform in parlours, * If you
can detect me in my deceptions I shall be
very much obliged to you by naming it, for it
will make me more careftd; but if you can't,
the more credit to me.' Then I place another
tin-box over the imitation dice ; it fits closely.
I say, » Presto—quick — begone 1 ' and clap my
hands three times, and then lift up the tin-
cases, which are both coloured black inside,
and tumble the wooden dice out of the under
hat. You see, the whole art consists in pass-
ing the solid block unseen into the hat.
" The old method of giving the order for
the things to pass was this : * Albri kira mum-
ma tousha cocus co shiver de freek from the
margin under the crippling hook,' and that's
a language."
Statement of akotheb Stbeet Cokjtbeb.
''Im London I had a great quantity of parlours
where I was known and allowed to perform. One
night I'd take the West-end, and another the
East-end. Sometimes I have done four or
five houses of an evening, and I have had to
walk miles for that— to Woolwich and back
for instance, or to Edmonton and back — and
occasionally I'd only come home with 1«. M,
I have also had 8«. from one parlour only, and
then I'd consider that a night's performance,
and come home again.
'^ I remember one Toy peeoBir dmnnstnM
which happened to me whilst I was out hoik-
ing. There is a house at the bottom of Tocfc-
strieet, Westminster, where th^ wouldn't allow
any other comurer but me. I wasveiy friendly
with the landlord, and I went there regohudj
every week, and I'd invariably take snoh a
thing as 2«. or 8«. out of the room. If Ifoand
only a small muster in the parlour, I'd say,
* 111 eome another evening,' sad go off to ano-
ther parlour in Pimlioo. One night the com-
pany in the parlour said, after I had been pe^
forming, * What a pity it is that one of yov
talent doesnt take a large room somewhere, and
we'd patronise you.' ' Why,' says the lan^ori,
* he can have my large room up-stairs if he
likes.' I agreed to it, and says, ' Well, gentls-
men, we'll have it next Wednesday evening, if
you think proper.' The landlord didnt tiQ
his wife that there was a performance to taka
place on the Wednesday evening. When I
went to this house to the appointment, theie
were about thirty assembled. The laiadlofd
was out. When we asked the landlady for the
room, she wouldn't, and we had all the diffi-
culty in the world before we got the apart-
ment. I wanted a large table-cloth to diMi
up my stand, for I have, in order to per-
form some of my tricks, to make a bag lirith
the end of the table-cloth to drop things into.
We sent the waitertoaskforthisdoth,and8a7B
she, * I aint going to lend no coi^iurers table-
cloths.' Then a gentleman says, ' Oh, non-
sense, 111 soon get you a table-doth. Shell
lend me one in a minute.' He goestoUie
bar, but the reply she made was, * I'm sn^
prised at Mr. W. having such a x>erformanos
up there, and no table-cloth shall you hate
fix>m me.' He came up-stairs, and said he had
been grossly insulted at tlie bar; and then ano-
ther gentleman said, * Well, this young Inan
shan't be disappointed, and we'll see if we
cant find another house down the street, and
move it to there, and we'll all go.' One went
out, and came back and said he'd not only got
a very large room and everything required, bat
the landlord had four friends in the bar who'd
join our company. I made altogether about
1/. that night, for I made no charge, and it
was altogether contribution. None of thai
company ever returned to that house again, so
he lost the whole of his parlour customers. I
oould never go into that house again, and I
really was sorry for the landlord, for it wasnt
his fault. This is a very good proof that it is
to the advantage of landlords to allow respeefc-
able performers to visit their parlours.
** At others times I have sometimes gone into
a pariour and found the customers taUdns
poUtics. If it was a very good company, and
I saw good business, I'd try to break the
thread of the discussion by saying when there
was a pause in the debate, * Qentlemen, wonld
you like to see some of my performances, svdi
as walking round the ceihng with my head
down?' Then they'd say, •WcU, that's Tety
L02W0N LABOXm AND THE LONDON POOR.
Ul
i; let^ see totl* Of course I couldn't
I, and I only said it to attract notice.
E^d do my card>tiickB, and make a col-
, and, after that, remark that as the
•walking performance was a dangerous
miiBt haye a sovereign ; of conrse they
it grre this, and I'd take my leave,
e night, in Oxford-street, I met a
and he says, 'Where are you going?'
lim I was himting for a good parlour,
told me he had just left a good com-
t soch and such a house. I thanked
nd I went there. It was up a long
B, and I entered the room without
the landlord's permission, and I called
lass of porter. As soon as I saw the
out of the room I made my appeal to
Qpany. They were all of them agree-
id most happy to see my performances.
[*d done my performance I went to
\ collection, and they said, * Oh, cer-
not ; we thought you'd done it for your
nusement; we never give anything to
y. I lost one hour of the best time of
{ht. I said, 'Very good, gentlemen,
tisfied if you are.' It was an agreed
ith the landlord, for he came into the
and he says, * What, another one ! '
seized me by the neck and pushed me
ks soon as I got outside I met another
sr, and he asked where I'd been. I
t I'd let him be served the same as I
I showed him the house, and told him
dd make a second 'nobbings' as we
» I stopped outside peeping over the
ind presently I see him being pushed
the landlord as I had been. We had a
laugh, and then we started off to
^street, to one of our principal houses,
tre wasnt a soul in the room. It was
le in a back -street, where none but
I and footmen resort to. But we was
ined to have some money that night,
I our families wanted it — ^both him and
ising a tobacconist's shop in Regent-
we saw three gents conversing with
ly behind the counter. I told him I'll
i;et a pickwick here, and see if I can't
i performance in the front of this
r. These things only wants an intro-
1 ; so I looks at my pickwick, and says
.s a pickwick ? why I swallows such as
' and I apparently swallowed it. One of
says, *You don't mean to say you
red it?' 'Certainly I did, sir,' I
. ; and then he makes me do it again.
L told them I'd show them something
ironderfhl still, so I said, 'Have you
nen such a thing as a couple of half-
about you 7' they gave me the money,
hd the trick of passing the money from
9 hand. I said to them, ' Can you tell
lidi hand the money's in?' says he,
anybody can see it's in that one.'
nr; saj8 I, 'I think not' *If it
aint,' says he, * you may keep 'em.' Then I
opened both hands, and they were in neither,
and he asked where they was then ; so I told
him I'd given him them back again, which of
course he denied, and appeared much sur-
prised. Then I took 'em out of his cravat.
It's a very clever trick, and appears most sur-
prising, though it's as simple as possible, and
all done by the way in which you take them
out of the cravat ; for you keep them palmed,
and have to work 'em up into the folds. Of
course I returned the half-crowns to him, but
when I heiurd him say you may keep them I
did feel comfortable, for that was something
to the good. My friend outside was looking
through the window, and I could see him
rubbing his hands with glee ; I got another
half-crown out of them gentlemen before I'd
done with them, for I showed 'em a trick with
some walking-sticks which were lying on the
counter, and also cut the tape in two and
made it whole again, and such-like perform-
ances. When a fellow is on his beam-ends, as
I was then, he must keep his eyes about him,
and have impudence enough for anything, or
else he may stop and starve. The great art
is to be able to do tricks with anything that
you can easily get hold of. If you take up a
bit of string from a counter, or boirow a
couple of shillings of a gentleman, your tricks
with them startles him much more than if you
had taken them out of your own pocket, tot
he sees there's been no preparation. I got
ten shillings out of these two gents I spoke
of, and then I and my mate went and busked
in a parlour, and got fivepence more ; so that »
we shared five and twopence-ha'penny each. ^
" I have often made a good deal of money in
parlours by showing how I did my little tncks,
such as cutting the tape and passing the half-
crowns. Another thing that people always
want to know is the thimble-rig trick. Of
course it doesn't matter so much showing how
these tricks are done, because they depend
upon the quickness and dexterity of handling.
Tou may know how an artist paints a picture,
but you mayn't be able to paint one yourself.
" I never practised thimble-rigging myself,
for I never approved of it as a practice. I've
known lots of fellows who lived by it. Bless
you ! they did well, never sharing less than
their 4/. or 5/. every day they worked. This
is the way it's done. They have three thimbles,
and they put a pea under two of 'em, so that
there's only one without the pea. The man
then b^^s moving them about and saying,
' Out of this one into that one,' and so on, and
winds up by offering to 'lay anything, from a
shilling to a pound,' that nobody can t^ which
thimble the pea is under. Then he turns
round to the crowd, and pretends to be push,
ing them back, and whilst he's saying, ' Come,
gentlemen, stand more backwarder,' one of the
confederates, who is called ' a button,' lifts up
one of the thimbles with a pea under it, and
langhfl to those around, as much as to saj,
U2
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
* We've found it out' He shows the pea two
or three times, and the last time he does so,
he removes it, either by taking it up under his
forefinger nail or between his thumb and
finger. It wants a great deal of practice to do
this nicely, so as not to be found out. When
the man turns to the table again the button
says, ' I'll bet you a couple of sovereigns I
know whero the pea is. Will any gentleman
gome halves?' Then, if there's any hesita-
tion, the man at the table will pretend to bo
nervous and olfer to move the thimbles again,
but the button will seize him by the arm, and
shout as if he was in a passion, ' No, no, none
of that ! It was a fair bet, and ^'ou shan't
touch 'em.' He'll tlicn again ask if anybody
will go him halves, and there's usually some-
body flat enough to join him. Then the
stranger is asked to lift up the thimble, so that
he shouldn't susx>ect anything, and of course
there's no pea there. He is naturally stag-
gered a bit, and another confederate standing
oy will say calmly, * I knew you was wrong ;
here's the pea;' aiid ho lifta up the thimble
with the second pea under it. If nobody will
go shares in the 'buiton's' bet, then he lifts
up the thimble and replaces the pea as he does
so, and of course wins the stake, and he takes
good care to say as he pockets the sovereign,
* I knew it was there ; what a fool you was not
to stand in.' The second time they repeat
the trick there's sure to be somebody lose his
money. Thero used to be a regular pitch for
thimble-riggers opposite Bedlam, when the
shows used to put up there. I saw a brewer's
collector lose 72. there in less than half-an-
homr. He had a bag full of gold, and they
let him win the three first bets as a draw.
Most of these confederates are fighting-men,
and if a row ensues they're sure to get the
best of it
^'A veiy good place where I used to go
busking was at Mother Emmerson's in Jermyn-
street. There used to be all sorts of characters
there, jugglers, and singers, and all sorts. It
was a favourite house of the Marquis of Water-
ford, and he used to use it nearly every night.
I've seen him buy a pipe of port, and draw
tumblers of it for any body that came in, for
his great delight was to mako people drunk.
He says to Mr8.£mmer8on, *• How much do you
want for that port, mother ? ' and then he wrote
a cheque for the amount and had it tapped.
He was a good-hearted fellow, was my Lord ;
if he played any tricks upon you, he'd always
square it up. Many a time he's given me half-
a-pint of brandy, saying, * That's all you'll get
fipom me/ Sometimes I'd say to him, * Can I
show you a few tricks, my Lord?' and then,
when rd finished, I knew he never gave
money if you asked him for it, so I'd let him
abuse me, and order me out of the house as a
humbug ; and then, just as I'd got to the door,
he'd call me back and give me half-a-sovercign.
I've seen him do some wonderful things.
t^re seen him jump into an old woman's
crockeryware-basket, while she was cany
along, and smash eveiything. Sometime
get seven or eight cabs and put a lot of fit
and other musicians on the roofs, and fi
with anybody that liked, and then go
procession round ihQ streets, he drivin
tirst cab as fast as he could and the
playing as loud as possible. It's wonderi
games he'd be up to. But he always
handsomely for whatever damage he di
he swept cdl the glasses off a cotmter,
was the money to make 'em good again. 1
ever I did any tricks before him, I tool
care not to produce any apparatus that I
for, or he'd be sure to smash it.
" One night I hadn't a penny in the
and at home I knew they wanted food ;
went out to busk, and I got over in tl
Kent-road, and went to a house there
the Green Man. I walked into the
lour; and though I hadn't a penny J
pocket, I called for four pen'orUi of nu
water. I put my big dice down upo:
table by the side of me, and begun si
my rum, and I could see cvciybody Ic
at this dice, and at last, just as I exp
somebody asked what it was. So I f
* Gentlemen, I get my Uving this way,
you like, I shall b« happy to show you
of my deceptions for your entertain
They said, * Certainly, young man, v
perfectly agreeable.' Ah! I thought t
self, thank heaven that's all right, for I
for the rum and water you see, and if
refused, I don't know what I should have
I pulled out my nice clean cloth and 1
upon the table, and to work I went.
only done one or two tricks, when in •
the waiter, and directly be sees me he
out, *• We don't allow no ooi^jurers oi
thing of that kind here,' and I had ti
up again. When he'd gone the company
' Go on, young man, it's all right now ;
out with my cloth again ; then in can
landlord, and says he, 'You've already
told we don't iJlow none of you oa
fellows here,' and I had to put up a 8
time. When he'd gone, the gents told
begin again. I had scafcely spread mj
when in comes the landlord again, in a '
ing rage, and shouts out, ' What, at it e
Now you be off;' so I said, »I only did
oblige the company present, who wera i
able, and that I hadn't yet finished m
and water, which wasn't paid for.* ' No*
for ? ' says he ; * No,' says I : * but Tm w
here for a friend, and bell pay for it.'
may imagine my feeUngs, widiout a pei
my pocket * Don't let me catch you
again, or I'll give you in charge,' sa:
Scarcely had he left again when Uie oox
began talking about it, and saying it w
bad to stop me; so one of them rinf
bell, and when the landlord comes :
says, * Mr. Landlord, tliis young perso
been veiy civil, and conducted himseL
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
118
highlj respectable manner, and has certainly
ifforded ns a great deal of amnsement ; now
I whj should you object to his showing us
Kune tricks f * Thank heavens/ thought I to
ffljself, * I'm sayed, and the rum will be paid
for. The landlord's manner altered all of a
> sodden, and says he, * Oh, certainly, gentle-
men! certainly! if it's your wish, I don't
mind the young man's being here ; thongh I
mike it a rule to keep my parlour select.'
' Then I set to work and did all my tricks
' eomfortably, and I made a collection of Is. 6rf.
I Then I rang the bell like a lord, and I put
down a shilling to pay for tlie rum and water,
tod saying, * Gentlemen, I'm very much obliged
to you for your patronage,' to which they
icptied, ' Not at all, young man,' I walked past
tka bar to leave. Then the landlord comes
Lto me and says, shaking his fist, and
in the face with rage, ' If ever I catch
I yott here again, you d rogue, I'll give you
(0 a policeman.' So, without more ado, I
valks round to the other door, and enters the
parlour again and tells the company, and they
bid in Uie landlord and blowed him well
■■ up. This will just show you the risks we
bsTB to run when out busking for a living,
and what courage is wcnted to speculate upon
dunces.
" There are very few coiyurers out busking
now. I don't know above four; one of 'em
hit had the best chances in the world of
getting on ; but he's a very uneducated man,
I tod that has stood iu his way, thongh he's
fBiy clever, and pr'aps the best hand at tlie
I eqw and balls of any man in England. For
I iDttance, once he was at a nobleman's party,
I gning his entertainment, and he says such
I a thing as this: — * You see, my lords and
' kdies, I have a tatur in this hand, and a tatur
I kthaft; now 1 shall pass 'em into this liand-
! hveher/ Of course the nobleman said to
' kmself, * Tatur! handkercher! why, who's
thk feller?' You may depend upon it he was
lenr isked there any more ; for every thing
I at a wizard's business depends upon graceful
I aetioii, and his style of dcUvery, so that he
\ IMJ make himself agreeable to the company.
'^When a conjurer's out busking, he may
nckon open making his v>05. a-week, taking
tile year round ; pr'aps, some weeks, he won't
tike more than 12s. or U)s. ; but then, at
othsr times, he moy get Gs, or 8«. in one
larionr alone, and I have taken as much as
U bgr teaching gentlemen how to do the tricks
I had been pfenning. I have sometimes
viQced my twenty miles a-day, and busked at
way paiiour I came to, (for I ne?er enter
tip-rooms,) and come home with only Is. 6d.
in my pocket. I have been to Edmonton and
\mk and only earned !«., and then, pr'aps,
it eleven the same night, when I was nearly
done up, and quite dispirited with my luck,
Tre turned into one of the parlours in town
■ad earned my Qs. in less than an hour, where
Id been twelve only earning one."
The Stbeet Fire-Kino, or Salamander.
This person came to me recommended by one
of my street acquaintances as the *• pluckiest
fire-eater going," and that as he was a little
'* do^-n at heel," he slumld be happy for a con-
sideration to give me any information I might
require in the " Salamander line.'*
He was a tall, gaimt man, with an absent-
looking face, and so pale that his dark eyes
looked positively wild.
I could not help thinking, as I looked at his
bony form, that fire was not the most nutri-
tious food in the world, until the poor fellow
explained to me that ho had not broken his
fast for two days.
He gave the following account of himself: —
" My father was a barber — a three-ha'penny
one — and doing a good business, in South-
wark. I used to assist him, lathering up the
chins and shaving 'em — torturing, I called it.
1 was a very good light hand. You see, you
tell a good shaver by the way he holds the
razor, and the play from tlie wrist. All our
customers were tradesmen and workmen, but
father would never shave either coalheavers or
fishermen, because they always threw down a
penny, and said there was plenty of penny
barbers, and tlioy wouldn't give no more. The
old man always stuck up for his price to the
day of his death. There was a person set up
close to him for a penny, and that icyiured us
awful. I was educated at St. George's National
and Parochial School, and I was a national lad,
and wore my own clothes ; but the parochials
wore the uniform of blue bob-tailed coats, and
a badge on the left side. When they wanted
to make an appearance in the gallery of the
church on charity-semion days, they used to
midco all the nationals dress like the paro-
chials, so as to swell the numbers up. I was
too fbnd of entertainments to stick to learning,
and I used to sttp it. Kennington common
was my principal place. I used, too, to go
to the outside of the Queen 's-bench and pick
up tlie racket-balls as they was chucked over,
and then sell them for three-ha'pence each.
I got promoted from the outside to the inside ;
for, from being always about, they took me at
threepence a-day, and gave me a bag of whiten-
ing to whiten the racket-balls. When I used
to hop the wag from school I went there,
which was tliree times ar-week, which was the
reglar racket-days. I used to spend my three-
pence in damaged fruit — have a pen'orth of
damaged grapes or plums — or have a ha'porth
of wafers from the confectioner's. Ah, I've eat
thousands and thousands of ha'porths. It's a
kind of a paste, but they stick Uke wafers —
my father's stuck a letter many a time with 'em.
They goes at the bottom of the russetfees cake
— ah, ratafees is the word.
*' I got so unruly, and didn't attend to school,
so I was turned out, and then I went to help
father and assist upon the customers. I was
confined so in the shop, that I only stopped
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
115-
jaomoit the lighted piece is put in your
montli, the flame goes out on the instant
Then we sqaench the flame with spittle.
As we takes a bit of link in the mouth, we
tacks it on one side of the cheek, as a monkey
do with nuts in his i>oach. After I have eaten
sufficient fire I take hold of the link, and ex-
tinguish the lot by putting the burning end in
my mouth. Sometimes, when I makes a slip,
sod don't pat it in carefhl, it makes your mous-
' tache fiz up. I must also mind how I opens
mj month, 'cos the tar sticks to the lip wherever
it touches, and pains sadly. This sore on my
hand is caused by the melted pitch dropping
00 my fingers, and the sores is liable to be
I bftd for a week or eight days. I don't spit out
my faits of link; I always swallow them. I
• nerer did spit 'em out, for they are very whole-
I some, and keeps you from having any sickness.
j Whilst I'm getting the next trick ready I
! ehewB them up and eats them. It tastes raUier
' xooghish, bat not nasty when you're accus-
tomed to it. It's only like having a mouthful
of dust, and veiy wholesome.
** My next trick is with a piece of tow with a
piece of tape rolled up in the interior. I begin
to eat a portion of this tow— plain, not a-light
—till I find a fitting opportunity to place the
tspe in the mouth. Then I pause for a time,
nil in the meantime Pm doing a little pan-
tomime basiness — ^just like love business, se-
rums—-till I get the end of this tape between
inj teeth, and then I draws it out, supposed
to be manufactured in the pit of the stomach.
After that — which always goes immensely —
1 eat some more tow, and inside this tow there
ii what I call the fire-ball— that is, a lighted
fbsee boond round with tow and placed in the
centre of the tow Tm eating— which I intro-
dooe at a fitting opportunity. Then I blows
out with my breath, and that sends out smoke
and fire. That there is a very hard trick, for
it's aooording how this here fire-ball bustes.
Sometimes it bastes on the side, and then it
bams aU. the inside of the mouth, and the
next morning you can take out pretty well the
inside of yonr mouth with your finger; but if
it bastes near the teeth, then it's all right, for
there's vent fur it. I also makes the smoke
and flame — that is, sparks — come down my
nose, the same as coming out of a blacksmith's
chimney. It makes the eyes water, and there's
t tingling ; bat it don*t bum or make you
giddy.
** My next trick is with the brimstone. I
have a plate of lighted sulphur, and first in-
hile the fomea, and then devour it with a fork
md swallow it As a costermonger said when
he saw me do it, ' I say, old boy, your game
nnt all brandy.' There's a kind of a acid,
niily, sour taste in this feat, and at first it used
to niake me fbel sick; but now I'm used to it,
end it dont. When I puts it in my mouth it
dingt jmllike sealing-wax, and forms a kind of
a dMtd ash. Of a morning, if I haven't got my
brwk&ii \ff a certain time, there's a kind of a
retching in my stomach, and that's the only
inconvenience I feel fh>m swallowing the sul-
phur for that there feat
" The next is, with two sticks of sealing-wax
and the same plate. They are lit by the gas
and dropped on one another till they are bodily
a-light. Then I borrow either a ring of the
company, or a pencil-case, or a seal. I set
the sealing-wax a-ligbt with a fork, and I press
the impression of whatever article I can get
with tlie tongue, and the seal is passed round
to the company. Then I finish eating the
burning wax. I always spits that out after,^
when no one's looking. Tho sealing-wax is
all right if you get it into the interior uf tho
mouth, but if it is stringy, and it falls, you
can't get it off, without it takes away skin and
all. It has a very pleasant taste, and I always
prefer the red, as it's flavour is the best Hold
your breath and it goes out, but still the heat
remains, and you can't get along with that so
fast as the sulphur. I often bum myself,
especially when I'm bothered in my entertain-
ment ; sach as any person talking about me
close by, then I listen to 'em perhaps, and Tm
liable to bum myself. I haven't been able
to perform for three weeks after some of my
burnings. I never let any of the audience
know anything of it, but smother up tho pain,
and go on with my other tricks.
" The other trick is a feat which I make
known to the public as one of Eamo Samee's,
which he used to perform in public-houses
and tap-rooms, and made a deal of money out
of. With the same plate and a piece of dry
tow placed in it, I have a pepper-box, with
ground rosin and sulphur together. I light the
tow, and with a knife and fork I set down to
it and eat it, and exclaim, * This is my light
supper.' There isn't no holding the breath so
much in this trick as in the others, but you
must get it into the mouth any how. It's
like eating a hot beef-steak when you are
ravenous. The rosin is apt to drop on the
flesh and cause a long blister. You see, we
have to eat it with the head up, full-faced ;
and really, without it's seen, nobody would
believe what I do.
" There's another feat, of exploding the
gunpowder. There's two ways of exploding
it This is my way of doing it though I only
does it for my own benefits and on grand
occasions, for it's veiy dangerous indeed to
the f^ume, for it's sure to destroy the hair of
the head ; or if anything smothers it, it's
liable to shatter a thumb or a limb.
" I have a man to wait on me for tliis trick,
and he unloops my dress and takes it ofi^
leaving the bare back and arms. Then I gets
a quarter of a pound of powder, and I has an
ounce put on the back part of the neck, in the
hollow, and I holds out each arm ^-ith an
orange in the palm of each hand, with a train
along the arms, leading up to the neck. Then
I turns my back to tho audience, and my man
fires the gunpowder, and it blew up in a
116
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
xninnte, and ran down the train and blew op
that in my hands. I've been pretty luol^
with this trick, for it's only been when the
Eowder's got under my bracelets, and then it
urts me. I'm obliged to hold the hand up,
for if it hangs down it hurts awful. It looks
like a scurvy, and as the new skin forms, the
old one falls ofL
** That's the whole of my general perform-
ance for concert business, when I go busking
at free concerts or outside of shows (I
generaUy gets a crown a-day at fairs). I never
o the gunpowder, but only the tow and the
link.
**I have been engaged at the Flora Gkur-
dens, and at St Helena Gardens, Bother-
hithe, and then I was Signor Salamander, the
great fire-kin^ from the East-end theatres.
At the Eel- pie-house, Peckham, I did the
' terrific flight through the air,' coming down
a wire surrounded by flre-works. I was
called Herr Alma, the flying flend. There was
four soaflbld-poles placed at the top of the
house to form a tower, just large enough for
me to lie down on my belly, for the swivels on
the rope to be screwed into the cradle round
my body. A wire is the best, but they had a
rope. On this cradle were places for the fire-
works to be put in it. I had a helmet of fire
on my head, and the three sparic cases (th^
are made with steel-filings, and throw out
sparks) made of Prince of Wales feathers. I
had a sceptre in my hand of two serpents, and
in their open mouths they put fire-balls, and
they lookeid as if they was spitting fieiy venom.
I had wings, too, formed ftom the ankle to the
waist They was netting, and spangled, and
well sized to throw off" the fire. I only did
this two nights, and I had ten shillings each
Serformance. It's amomentaiy feeling coming
own, a kind of suffocation like, so that you
must hold your breath. I had two mei\ to
cast me ofi*. There was a gong first of all,
knocked to attract the attention, and then I
made my appearance. First, a painted pigeon,
made of lead, is sent down the wire as a
pilot. It has moveable wings. Then all the
fire-works are lighted up, and I come down
right through ihe thickest of 'em. There's a
trap-door set in the scene at the end, and two
men is there to look after it As soon as I
have passed it, the men shut it, and I dart up
against a feather-bed. The speed I come
down at regularly jams me up against it, but
you see I throw away this sceptre and save
myself with my hands a little. I feel fagged
for want of breath. It seems like a sudden
fright, you know. I sit down for a few
minutes, and then Pm all right
**rm never afraid of fire. There was
a turner's place that took fire, and I saved
that house from being burned. He was a
friend of mine, the turner was, and when I
was there, the wife thought she heard the
children crying, and asked me to go up and
see what it was. As I went up I could smell I
fire worse and worse, and when I got in the
room it was frill of smoke, and all the car-
pet, and bed-hangings, and curtains smoulder-
ing. I opened the window, and the fire burst
out, so I ups with the carpet and throw'd it
out of window, together with the blazing
chairs, and I rolled the linen and drapery up
and throw'd them out I was as near suflb-
cated as possible. I went and felt the bed,
and there was two children near dead firom
the smoke; I brought them down, and a
medical man was called, and he brought then
round.
** I dont reckon no more than two oih«r
fire-ldnp in London beside myself. I only
know of two, and I should be sure to hear of
'em if there were more. But they can only
do three of the tricks, and I've got novelties
enough to act for a fortnight, with fresh per-
formances eveiy evening. There's a party In
Dmry.lane is willing to back me for five,
fifteen, or twenty pounds, against anybody
that will come ana answer to it, to p€»foim
with any other man for cleanness and clever^
ness, and to show more variety of perfonn-
^Vm always at fire-eating. That's howl
entirely get my living, and I perform five
nights out of the six. Thursday night is Uia
only night, as I may say, I'm idle. Thursday
night eveiybody's frijgged, that's the saying—-
Got no money. Friday, there's many liuge
firms pays their men on, especially in Bar-
mondsey.
'Tm out of an engagement now, and I
dont make more than eleven shillings a-week,
because I'm busking; but when I'm in an
engagement my money stands me about
thirty-five shillings a-week, putting down the
value of the drink as well-*that is, what's
allowed for refreshment Summer is the worst
time for me, 'cos people goes to the gflffdens«
In the winter season I'm always engaged three
months out of the six. Ton might say, if yoa
counts the overplus at one time, and minus at
other time, that I makes a pound a-week. I
know what it is to go to the treasury on a
Saturday, and get my thirty shillings, and I
know what it is to have the landlord come with
his *• Hallo ! hallo ! here's three weeks due^
and another week running on.'
" I was very hard up at one time — when I
was living in Friar-street— and I used to
frequent a house kept by a betting-man, near
the St George's Surrey Riding-school. A man
I knew used to supply this betting-man with
rats. I was at this public-house one night
when this rat-man comes up to me, and says
he, * Hallo! my pippin ; here, I want you : I
want to make a match. Will you kill thir^
rats against my dog ?' So I said, * Let me see
the dog first ; ' and I looked at his mouth, and
he was an old dog ; so I says, * No, I wont go in
for thirty ; but I don't mind trying at twenty.*
He wanted to make it twenty-four, but I
wouldn't They put the twenty in the ratpph^
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
117
iiid the dog irent in first tnd killed his, and
be took 9k qoAiter of an hour and two minutes.
Thm % fresh lot were put in the pit, and I
beipyi ; my hands were tied behind me. They
ihriyt make an allowanoe for a man, so the
pit was made closer, for yon see a man can't
tamroondlike adog; I had half the space of
tke dog. The rats lay in a duster, and then
1 picked them off where I wanted 'em, and bit
lEm between the shoulders. It was when they
cme to one or two that I had the work, for
tbej eat ^x>at. The last one made me re-
member him, for he gave me a bite, of which
Pve got the scar now. It festered, and I was
dUBged to have it cut out. I took Dutch
drops for it, and poulticed it by day, and I
WIS bad for three weeks. They made a sub*
teription in the room of fifteen shillings for
kiOaig these rats. I won the match, and beat
the dog \ty four minutes. The wager was five
ifaiUbags, which I had. I was at the time so
kaid up, rd do anything for some money;
Ihou^ as far as that's concerned, I'd go into a
fit now, if anybody would make it worth my
wbfle."
The Sxakb, Swobd, ahd Krite-Swallowxb.
Hi was quite a young man, and, judging from
Ui eonntenanoe, there was nothing Uiat could
teeoottt for his having taken up so strange a
iDsthod of gaining his livelihood as that of
swallowing snakes.
He was very simple in his talk and manner.
He readily confessed that the idea did not
originate with him, and prided himself only
on being the second to take it up. There is no
doobt that it was from his being startled by the
itnngeness and daringness of the act that he
was induced to make the essay. He said he
saw nothing disgusting in it; that people
Ubsd it ; that it served him well in his ** pro-
feBBionBl* engagements; and spoke of the
saake in genial as a reptile capable of afiec
lion, not unpleasant to the eye, and very
deanly in its habits.
**! swallow snakes, swords, and knives;
bet, of coarse, when I'm engaged at a penny
theatre I*m expected to do more than this,
lor it would only take a quarter of an hour,
Old that isn't long enough for them. They
cdl me in the perfession a * Sallementro,' and
that is what I term myself; though p'raps
itrs easier to say I'm a * swallower.'
^ It was a mate of mine that I was with
that first put me up to sword-and-snake swal-
kniiDg. I copied off him, and it took me
about three months to learn it. I began with
* cwofd first — of course not a sharp sword,
bat one blunt-pointed— and I didn't ex.
aelly know how to do it, for there's a trick in it.
I eee him, and I said, ' Oh, I shall set up
master for myself, and practise until I can
doit*
^ At first it turned me, putting it down my
iluQat past my swallow, right down— about
eighteen inches. It made my swallow sore —
yeiy sore, and I used lemon and sugar to cure
it. It was tight at first, and I kept pushing it
down fruther and further. There's one thin^,
you mustn't cough, and until you're used to it
you want to very bad, and then you must pull
it up again. My sword was about three-quar-
ters of an inch wide.
^ At first I didn't know the trick of doing it,
but I found it out this way. You see the
trick is, you must oil the sword— the best
sweet oil, worth fourteen pence a pint — and
you put it on with a sponge. Then, you un-
derstand, if the sword scratches the swallow
it dont make it sore, 'cos the oil heals it up
again. When first I put the sword down, be-
fore I oiled it, it used to come up quite slimy,
but after Uie oil it slips down quite easy, is as
clean when it comes up as before it went
down.
" As I told you, we are called at concert-rooms
where I perform the < Sallementro.' I think
it's French, but I don't know what it is exactly ;
but that's what I'm called amongst us.
'' The knives are easier to do Uian the sword
because they are shorter. We puts them right
down till the handle rests on the mouth. The
sword is about eighteen inches long, and the
knives about eight inches in the blade. People
run away with Uie idea that you slip the blades
down your breast, but I always hold mine right
up with the neck bare, and they see it go into
the mouth atween the teeth. They also fancy
it hurts you; but it don't, or what a fool I
should be to do it. I don't mean to say it
don't hurt you at first, 'cos it do, for my swal-
low was very bad, and I couldn't eat anything
but liqtuds for two months whilst I was learn-
ing. I cured my swallow whilst I was stretch-
ing it with lemon and sugar.
*' I was tlie second one that ever swaDowed
a snake. I was about seventeen or eighteen
years old when I learnt it. The first was
Clarke as did it. He done vexy well with it, but
he wasn't out no more than two years before
me, so he wasn't known much. In the country
there is some places where, when you do it,
they swear you are the devil, and won't have it
nohow.
" The snakes I use are about eighteen inches
long, and you must first cut the stingers out,
'cos it might hurt you. I always keep two or
three by me for my performances. I keep
them warm, but the winter kills 'em. I give
them nothing to oat but worms or gentles. I
generally keep them in fionnel, or hay, in a
box. I've three at home now.
** When first I began swallowing snakes they
tasted queer like. They draw'd the roof of
the mouth a bit. It's a roughish taste. The
scales rough you a bit when you draw them
up. You see, a snake will go into ever such a
little hole, and they are smooth one way. ^
*' The head of the snake goes about an inch
and a half down the throat, and the rest of it
continues in the mouth, curled round like. I
118
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
hold him hy the tidl, and when I pinoh it he
goes right in. You must cut the stinger oat
or he'll iiyure you. The tail is slippeiy, but
you nip it with the nails like pinchen. If
yon was to let him go, he'd go right down ;
but most snakes will stop at two inches down
the swallow, and then they bind like a ball in
the mouth.
** I in genendly get my snakes by giving little
boys ha'pence to go and catch 'em in the
woods. I get them when I'm pitching in the
country. I'll get as many as I can get, and
bring 'em up to London for my engagements.
** AVhen first caught the snake is slimy, and
I have to clean him by scraping him off with
the finger-nail as dean as I can, and then
wiping him with a cloth, and then with ano-
ther, until he's nice and clean. I have put
lem down slimy, on purpose to taste what it
was like. It had a nasty taste with it— >Teiy
nasty.
** I give a man a shilling always to cut the
stinger out— one that knows all about it, for
tlio Btinger is under the tongue. It was this
Clark I first see swallow a snake. He swallowed
it as it ^-os when ho caught it, slimy. He
said it was nasty. Then he scraped it with
his nail and lot it crawl otween his hands,
cleaning itself. When once they are cleaned
of the slime they havn no taste. Upon my
word they are clean thinp:s, a'most like metal.
They only lives on worms, and that ain't so
nasty ; besides, tliey never makes no mess in
tlie box, only frotliing in the mouth at morn-
ing and evening : but I don't know what comes
from 'em, for I ain't a doctor.
" When I exhibit, I first holds the snake up
in the air and pinches the tail, to make it curl
about and twist round my arm, to show that
he is alive. Then I holds it above my mouth,
and as soon as he sees the hole in he goes.
He goes wavy-like, as a ship goes. — ^that;B the
comparison. You see, a snake will go in at
any hole. I always hold my breath whilst
his head is in my swallow. AVhen he moves
in the swallow, it tickles a little, but it don't
make you want to retch. In my opinibn
he is more glad to come up than to go
down, for it seems to be too hot for him. I
keep him down about two minutes. If I
breathe or cough, he draws out and cuils back
again. I think there's artfulness in some of
them big snakes, for they seem to know which
is the master. I was at Wombwell's menagerie
of wild bea.^t8 for three months, and I had the
care of a big snake, as thick round as my arm.
I -wouldn't attempt to put that one down my
throat, I can tell you, for I think I might
easier have gone down his'n. I had to show
it to the people in front of the carriages to
draw 'em in, at fair time. I used to hold it up
in both hands, with my arms in the air. Many
a time it curled itself three or four times
round my neck and about my body, and it
never even so much as squeeged me the least
bit. I had the feeding on it, and I used to
prive it the largest worms I coiild find. Mr.
Wombwell has often said to me, ' It^s a dan-
gerous game you're after, and if you don't
give the snake plenty of worms and make it
like you, it'll nip you some of these times.' Tm
sure the snake know'd me. I was very partial
to it, too. It was a flirren snake, over spots,
called a boa-constructor. It never iii^uxed me,
though I'm told it is uncommon powerful,
and eon aqueege a man up like % sheet of
paper, and crack his bones as easj ms a laric*!.
Pm tremendous courageous, nothing frightens
me ; indeed, I don't know what it is to be afraid.
" The one I was speaking of I have aften
held up in the air in both hands, and it
was more than four yards long, and let it
curl round my neck in five or six twiris. It
was a boa-constructor, and I believe it knoWd
me, end that's why it didn't hurt me, for I feed
him. He had nothing but long great wonns,
and he grew to know me.
^ My performance with the snake is always
very successful. The women is frightened at
first, but they always stop to see, and only
hide their eyes. '1 here's no danger as long
as you keep hold.
^ I generally perform at concert-rooms, and
penny theatres, and cheap circuses, and all
round the counUy, such as in the street, or at
farm-houses, or in tap-rooms. I have done it
in the streets of London too, and then Vm
drcssed-up in fleshing tights, skin dress, and
trunks. I carry the snake in a box. When I
swallow it some holloa out, ' 0 my God, dont
do that!' but when I'm finished, they siy,
'It's hardly wonderfrd to be believed,' axid
give money.
« I generally mix up the sword-and-snake
performances with my other ones ; and it^
the same in the streets.
** Sometimes I go out to tap-rooms in my
eveiy-day dress, with the snake in my pocket,
and a sword. Then I go and ofler to show
my performance. First I'll do some tumbling,
and throw a somerset over a table. Then I
takes out the snake ard say, * Gentlemen, I
shall now swallow a live snake, anybody is at
liberty to feel it,' I have— according to the
company, you know — ^niade such a thing aa
five shillings, or one shilling and sixpence,
or whatever it may be, by snake-swallowing
alone.
''I'm the only one in London who can
swallow a snake. There's nobody else besides
me. It requires great courage. I've great
courage. One night I was sleeping in a bam
at a public-house, called the Globe, at Lewes,
seven miles from Brighton. A woman who
had cut her throat used to haunt the place.
Well, I saw her walking about in a long white
shroud, the doors opening and shutting be-
fore her. A man who was in the room with
us jumped up in his bed and cried, * Tum-
blers!'"
'*I must teU you one thing before you
finish, just to prove what tremendous courage
JuONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
Ill)
L I was out showing the sword-aad-
swallowing in the conntiy, and I tra-
down to near Lawes, which is seven
ram Brighton, and there I put up at a
adled the Falcon. We slept in a bam,
night, when all was asleep except my-
see a fignre all in white come into the
vith her throat cnt, and her face as
m chalk. I knowed she was a apperi-
OB rd been told the hoose was haunted
b. Well, in she come, and she stopped
oked at me, seeing that I was awake,
lenpization poored out of me like a
r; hat I wam't afeard, I've that courage.
,*Ood help me!' for I knew I'd done
m as I cocdd call to mind ; so I hadn't
r of ghosts and such-like spirits. No,
ftain it wem't no fancy of mine, 'cos
see it as well as me. There was a
B the same room, and he woke up and
16 ghosts, and up he jumps in bed and
mt: 'Tumblers! Tumblers! here's a
I h'^tnting us ! ' I told him to lie down
> to sleep, and hold his uoise. Then I
t of bed, and it wanished past me, close
Id be, — as near as I am to this table.
oor opened itself to let her out, and
loaed again. I didn't fed the air cold
or nothing, nor was there any smell or
nk. I'm sure I wasn't dreaming, 'cos
rs pretty well when I'm awake. Besides
ora kept bouncing open, and then slam-
o again for more Uian an hour, and woke
od^ in the room. This kept on tiU one
• Yet, yon see, though the sweat run
ne to that degree I was wetted through,
lad that courage I could get out of bed
what the spirit was like. I said, ' God
le 1 for I've done no harm as I knows of^'
at give mo courage."
1^ the ^ Salamentro " told mo this ghost
lie spoke it in a half voice, like that of
oas believer in such things. When he
dshed he seomed to have something on
ad, for after a moment's silence he said,
oniidential tone, "Between ourselves,
VCL a Jew." I then asked him if he
It the ghost was aware of it, and had
him on that account, and the following
i reply : " Well, it ain't imlikely ; for, you
me of our scholars know what to say to
K>r things, and they know what to do
; 'em. Now, pr'aps she thought I knew
wcrets^ — ^but, I'm no scholard — ^for, yon
\ itm^ always carry prayers about with
beep ofi evil spirits. That's one reason
was so bold as to go up to her."
Stbekt Clowh.
«8 a melancholy -looking man, with
nken eyes and other characteristics of
starvation, whilst his face was scored
inee and wrinkles, telling of paint and
iture age.
B.W him performing in the streets with
a school of acrobats soon after I had been
questioning him, and the readiness and busi-
nessUike way with which he resumed his
professional buffoonery was not a httle re-
maricable. His stoiy was more pathetic than
comic, and proved that the li£B of a street
clown is, perhaps, the most wretched of all
existence. Jest as he may in the street, his
hfe is literally no joke at home.
** I have been a down for sixteen years," he
said, ** having lived totally by it for that time.
I was left motherless at two years of age, and
my father died when I was nine. He was a
carman, and his master took me as a stable-
boy, and I stayed with him until he failed in
business. I was then left destitute again,
and got employed as a snpemumeraiy at
Astle/s, at one shilling a-night I was a
' super' some time, and got an insight into
theatricd life. I got acquainted, too, with
singing people, and could sing a good song,
and came out at last on my own account in
the streets, in the Jim Grow line. My neces-
sities forced me into a public line, which I am
far from liking. I'd pull trucks at one shilling
a-day, rather than get twelve shillings a- week
at my business. I've tried to get out of the
line. I've got a friend to advertise for me for
any situation as groom. Ive tried to get iuto
the police, and I've tried oUier things, but
somehow there seems an impossibility to get
quit of the street business. Many times I
have to play the down, and indulge in all kinds
of buffoonery, with a terrible heavy heart. I
have travelled very much, too, but I never did
over-well in the profession. At races I may
have made ten shillings for two or three days,
but that was only occosiond ; and what is ten
shillings to keep a wife and family on, for a
month maybe? I have three children, one
now only dght weeks old. You can't imagine,
sir, what a curse the street business often
becotnos, with its insults and starvations.
The day before my wife was confined, I jumped
andlabour'd doing Jim Grow for twdve hours —
in the wet, too-— and earned one shilling and
threepence; with ibis I returned to a home
without a bit of cod, and with only half-a-
quartern loaf in it. I know it was one shilling
and threepence ; for I keep a sort of log of mj
earnings and my expenses; yon'U see on it
what I've eom'd as clown, or the ftmnyman,
with a party of acrobats, since the beginning
of this year."
He showed me this log, as he called it,
which was kept in small figures, on paper
folded up as economically as possible. His
latest weekly earnings were, ISU. 6<i., U. \OtL,
7s. 7if., 2«. Sd., a#. Hid., 7*. 1^ 7j. 9K»
6«. 4|d., 10«. 104d., 95. 7d., 6s. lid., I5s. 0H»
6s. 6d., 4s. 2d., I2s. lOid., lOt. &Kr ^^* ^•
Against this was set off what the poor man
haid to expend for his dinner, drc, when
out playing the clown, as he was away firom
home and could not dine with his family. The
dphers intimate the weeks when there was no
>/
190
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOS.
such expense, or in other words, those which
had heen passed without dinner. 0, 0, 0, 0,
2t, 2|rf., 3«. 9{d,, 4>. id,, 4f. JM., 6«. 6^1^., ftt.
11H> ^' lO^rf., 2f. 8H> St. 7K» 8«. 4|rf., Of.
bid,, Am, 6}4^, 4f. 3«I. This account shows an
average of Ba. 6^. a- week as the gross gain,
whilst, if the expenses he deducted, not quite
six shillings remain as the average weekly sum
to he taken home to wife and family.
**! dare say," continued the man, *<that
no persons tMnk more of their dig^ty than
such as are in my way of life. I would rather
starve than ask for parochial relief. Many a
time I have gone to my lahour without breakmg
my fast, and played clown until I could raise
dinner. I have to make jokes as clown, and
«ould fill a volume with all I knows."
He told me several of his jests ; they were
«11 of the most venerable kind, as for instance :
— ** A horse has ten legs : he has two fore
legs and two hind ones. Two fores are eight,
«nd two others are ten." The other jokes
were equally puerile, as, •* Why is the City of
Home,** (he would have it Rome), "like a
candle wick? Because it's in the midst of
Greece." **01d and young are both of one
«ge : your son at twenty is young, and your
liorse at twenty is old: and so old and
joung are the same.** ''The dress," he
continued, *'thatl wear in the streets consists
of red striped cotton stockings, with ftdl
trunks, dotted red and black. The body,
which is dotted like the trunks, fits tight like
a woman's ^own, and has Aili sleeves and
Irills. The wig or scalp is made of horse-hair,
which is sown on to a white cap, and is in the
shape of a cock's comb. My face is painted
with dry white lead« I grease my skm first
and then dab the white paint on (flake-white
is too dear for us street clowns) ; after that I
colour my cheeks and mouth with vermilion.
I never dress at home ; we all dress at public-
houses. In the street where I lodge, only a
very few know what I do for a living. I and
my wife both strive to keep the business a
secret firom our neighbours. My wife does a
little washing when able, and often works
eight hours for sixpence. I go out at eight
in the morning and return at dark. My
children hardly know what I do. They see
my dresses lying about, but that is all. My
eldest is a girl of thirteen. She has seen me
dressed at Stepney fair, where she brought me
my tea (I live near there) ; she laughs when
she sees me in my clown's dress, and wants to
stay with me : but I would rather see her lay
dead before me (and I had two dead in my
place at one time, last Whitsun Monday was a
twelvemonth) than the should ever belong
to my profession."
I could see the tears start from the man's
eyes as he said this.
"Frequently when I am playing the fool in
the streets, I feel very sad at heart I can't help
thinkingof the bare cupboards at home ; but
what's that to the worid? l*ve often and often
been at home all day when it has be*
wi^ no food at all, either to give my o
or take myself, and have gone out at i
the public-houses to sing a comic s
play the funnyman for a meal — yo
miagine with what feelings for the part
when I've come home I've call'd my o
up from their beds to share the loai
brought back with me. I know three <
clowns as miserable and bad off as
The way in which our profession is ru
by the stragglers or outsiders, who an
men who are good tradesmen. They tak
clown's business only at holiday or fsi
when there is a little money to be pieke
it, and after that they go back to th«
txtides ; so Uiat, you see, we, who are oU
continue at it Uie year llirough, are dep:
even the little bit of luck we should otl
have. I know only of another regnlai
clown in London besides myself. Some i
of acrobats, to be sure, wiU have a comic <
ter of some kind or other, to keep the pi
that is, to amuse the people while the
is being collected : but Uiese, in gene
not regular clowns. They are m<^y i
and got up for the occasion. They «
don't do anything else but the street
business, but they are not pantomim
profession. The street clowns genen
out with dancers and tumblers. Th<
some street clowns to be seen with the
in-the-greens ; but they are mostly i
who have hired their dress for the
three days, as the case may be. I thin
are three regular clowns in the met]
and one of these is not a professioB
never smelt the sawdust, I know, air
most that I have known have been
makers before taking to the business.
I go out as a street clown, the first thii
is a comic medley dance ; and then aft
I crack a few jokes, and that is the wl
my entertainment The first part
medley dance is called * the good St An
(I was the first that ever danced the p
the streets) ; then I do a waltz, and n
with a hornpipe. After that I go thn
little burlesque business. I fan myse
one of the school asks me whether I am
breath ? I answer, * No, the breath is
me.' The leading questions for the jd
all regularly prepared beforehand. T
jokes always go best with our and
The older they are, the better for the i
I know, indeed, of nothing new in the
way ; but even if there was, and it was in a
deep, it would not do for the public tho
fares. I have read a great deal of*]
but the jokes are nearly all too high
indeed, I cant say I think very mu(& o
myself. The principal way in which I
up my jokes is through associating with
clowns. We dont make our jokes oursel'
fact, I never knew one clown who did.
own that the street clowns like a little c
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
121
and occasionally a good deoL They
«e in a measure obligated to it. I can't fancy
a cioirn being funny on small beer ; and I
Bsvcr in all my life knew one who was a
tMlBCaUer. I think such a person would be
a onioiia character, indeed. Most of the street
dovaa die in the workhouses. In their old
i|« they are generally rery wretched and
fQff«ty.ctricken. I cant say what I think
vill be the end of me. I darent think of it,
k%em minutes afterwards I saw this man
fcMHi! aa Jim Crow, with his face blackened,
ilierinc and singing in the streets aa if
ha waa the lightest-hearted fellow in all
The Pksxt-Gait Clowx.
Tn "'proiiBsaional** firom whom I elicited my
kiio«led|^ of penny-gaff clowning is known
■Mog hia companions as ^ Funny Billy." He
■fitted not a little anxious to uphold the
jgnity of the penny theatre, frequently assur-
iig ne that ** they brought things out there
■ a ilyle that would astonish some of the big
kmea." Iffia whole being seemed ?rrapped
a hi these cheap dramatic saloons, and he
I me wonderful stories of first-claas actors
H ** The Bffingham,** or of astonishing per-
faBcn at ** The Bower," or ** Rotunda." He
ua iorpfiaed, too, that the names of several
tf the artiates there were not familiar to me,
ad fteqnently pressed me to go and see so-
ad-aola ** Beadle," or hear so-and-so sing his
"Oh! dont I like my Father !"
Baadea being a clown, my informant was
ilio '^an author," and several of the most
■HeMftil ballets, pantomimes, and dramas,
IbA of late years have been brought out at the
(Star (■&, have, I was assured, proceeded from
^Uapen."
Li build, even in his every-day clothes, he
xeaembles a down — perhaps from the
of his chest and high-buttoned
or from the shortness and crooked-
of hia legs ; but he was the first I had
whoee form gave any indication of his
Sboe the beginning of this year (185C) he
ftM nfeo np clowning, and taken to pantaloon*
iaginateady for "on last boxing-day," he in-
foRBed me, ^ he met with an accident which
I ^"Vrraird his jaw, and caused a swelling in
\m cheek aa ^ he had an apple inside his
■ aoeth." This he said he could conceal in his
Mka-np as a pantaloon, but it had ruined him
for down.
ffia statement was as follows : —
**rm a clown at penny ga£& and the cheap
tkcitres, for some of the gafis are twopence
nd threepence-— that's as high as they run.
^ Botonda in the Blackfriars'-road is the
Wgest in London, and that will hold one
^iiOQttiid comfortably seated, and they give
I ^in one evening, at one penny, twopence,
and threepence, and a first-class entertain-
ment it is, consisting of a variety of singing
and dancing, and ballets, from one hour and
a-half to two hoiurs. There are no penny
theatres where speaking is legally allowed,
though they do do it to a great extent, and at
all of 'em at Christmas a pantomime is played,
at which Clown and Pantaloon speaks.
** The difi'erence between a penny-gaff clown
and a fair, or, as we call it, a canvas down, is
this,-— at the fairs the principal business is
outside on the parade, and there's very little
done (sddom more than two scenes) inside.
Now at the penny gafis they go through c^
regular pantomime, consisting of from six to
eight scenes, with jumps and all complete,
as at a regular theatre ; so that to do clown to
one of them, you must be equal to those that
come out at the regular theatres ; and what's
more, you must strain every nerve ; and what's
more still, you may often please at a regular
theatre when you won't go down at all at a
penny gafil The circus clown is as different
from a penny-gaff down as a coster is from
a tradesman.
**What made me turn down was this. I
was singing comic songs at the Albion Saloon,
Whitechapel, and playing in ballets, and
doing the scene-painting.' Business was none
of the best. Mr. Paul Herring, the celebrated
clown, was introduced into the company as a
draw, to play bidlets. The ballet which he
selected was *The Barber and Beadle;' and
me being the only one who played the old
men on the estabUshment, he selected me to
play the Beadle to his Barber. He compli-
mented me for what I had done, when the
performance was over, for I done my utter-
most to gain his applause, knowing him to be
such a star, and what he said was — I think —
deserved. We played together ballets for up-
wards of nine months, as well as pantomimes,
in which I done the Pantaloon ; and wo had
two clear benefits between us, in which we
realised three pounds each, on both occasions.
Then Mr. Paul Herring was engaged by Mr.
Jem Douglass, of the Standard, to perform
with the great cloMrn, Mr. Tom Matthews, for
it was intended to have two downs in the
piece. Ho having to go to the Standard for
the Christmas, left about September, and we
was without a clown, and it was proposed that
1 should play the clown. 1 accepted the offer,
at a salary of tbiiny-live shillings a-week,
under Hector Simpson, the great pantomimist
—who was proprietor. This gentleman was
well known as Uie great dog-and-bear man of
Covent Garden, and vaiious other theatres,
where he played Vultuitine and Orson with a
living bear. He showed rac vaiions things
that I were deficient in, and with what I knew
n^yself we went on admiringly well ; and I
continued at it as clown for upwards of a year,
and became a great favourite.
" Iremember clowning last Christmas ( 1850)
particularly, for it was a sad year for mc, and
1298
LOhDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOM.
one of the busiest times I have ever known.
I met with my accident then. I was wox^ed
to death. First of all, I had to do mj re-
hearsals ; then I had the scene-painting to go
on with, which occupied me night and day, and
what it brought me in was three shillings a-
daj and three shillings a-night The last
scene, eqnal to a pair of flats, was only given
to me to do on Ghxistmas-eve, to accomplish by
the bozing'day. I got them done by five
o'clock at Christmas morning, and then I had
to go home and complete my dress, likewise
my little boy's, who was engaged to sing and
play in ballets at two shillings a-night ; and he
was only five years old, bat very clever at
singing, combating, and ballet performing, as
also the illustrations of the Grecian statues,
which he first done when he was two and a
half years old.
** The pantomime was the original Statue
Blanche, as performed by Joe Grimaldi, as Mr.
Hector Simpson had produced it — for it was
under his superintendence — at Govent Garden
Theatre. It's title was, * The Statue Blanche,
or Harlequin and the Magic Cross.' I was
very successftil on the boxing.nii^t, but on the
second occasion of my acting in it I received
an accident, which laid me up for three months,
and I was not off my oed for ten weeks.
*' I had. pre^-ious to this, played clown very
often, esi>ecially on the Satmrday evenings, for
the Jews, for I was a great favourite with
them ; so for, that I knew they would go fa»
and near to serve me. I had performed in
• Harlequin Blue Beard,* and * Harlequm Merry
Milliners, or The Two Pair of Lovers,' and
several others, fh)m eight to ten of them ; but
that was during the summer season. But I
had never had a chance of coming out at
Christmas before, and to me it was quite an
event, and there's no doubt I should have
prospered in it only for my accident.
" This accident was occasioned by this.
During the comic scene — the scene of the
stripping of the chUd — they allowed an in.
experienced person to play the part of the
Beadle, and the doll for the child was stuffed
with oak sawdust, and weighed twenty-six
pounds. He took it up by the leg and
struck me a blow in the face, which dislocated
the jaw-bone, and splintered it all to pieces.
I went through the pantomime with the rem-
nants of the broken jaw still in my face,
having then four hours to perfonn, for we
played sixteen houses that boxing^day, to
upwards of firom three to four thousand peo>
pie, and we began at half-past eleven in
the day, and terminated at twelve at night.
I had met with great approbation the whole
of the time, and it was a sad event for me.
It was quite accidental was my accident, and
of course I bore the man no malice for one,
but more blamed the manager for letting him
come on.
" When I had done that night, after my
blow, I felt very fatigued, and my face was vety
sore. I was completely jawlocke
imagined I had caught a cold. It
awfully every time I closed my tee
drowned my feelings in a little brand
forth; and the next night I resi
downing. After I had done that e
found I was so vexy bad I could hart
and going home with my wife and o
was obliged to sit down every othi
took, which occupied me very near t
to do the mile and a quarter. I wei
and never got up again for ten we<
brought on fever again. Ahl whi
suffered, God, and God only, knows
the doctor came, he said I were imd
severe fever, and he thought I had
cold, and that I had the erysiphilas,
being so swollen that it hung on my
as they propped me up with pillows.
nothing about it. He made 'em I
face with poppy-heads, and wash m
out with honey, which drove me o
mind, for I was a fortnight deranged,
told me, that whilst I was mad I hat
very ill to her — poor thing I — ^for I wc
anybody oome near me but her ; f
she'd come I'd seize her by the hair,
she was the man who had broke my
once Inear strangled her. I was mad,^
Ah! what I suffered then, nobod
Through that accident my wife and
has had many a time to go without
Everything was sold then to keep mc
workhoase — even my poor little
frocks. My poor wife saved my life, i
did, for three doctors gave me up. I doi
they knew what I had. The teeth i
but the mouth was closed, and I coul
it. They thought I had an abscess 1
they out me three or four times in tl
open the gathering. At lost they i
the jaw-bone was smashed. "SXln
better, the doctor told me he could d
for me, but give me a letter to Dr. F
at the King's College Hospital. I wei
and he examined and probed the jav
the incision under the gland of the ;
then he said he must take the jaw ot
I would consult my friends and h
they said first ; and wiUi the idea a
operation, and being so weak, I actual
down in the passage as I was leaving
"Ah! fancy my distress to mokt
hit, and everj'body to compliment m<
did, and to see a prospect of almos
money, and then suddenly to be thr(
and be told it was either life or deatl
" I wouldn't undergo the operatic
went home, and here comes forti
pulled out the teeth with a pair of
pincers, and cut open my face wit
knife to take out the bits of bone. I
been a prudent, sober man, I sho
died through it.
** There was a friend of mine who
a broth^ to me, and he stuck to :
LONDON LABOUR ASD THE LONDON POOR,
123
inch. There was lots of professionals I had
tapported in their iU&ess, and they never come
near lue; only mj dear friend, uiid but for
him I i^hould have died, for he saved up his
money to get me port wine and such things.
"Many a time Tre gone out when I was
better to sing comio songs at concerts, when
I could feel the hits of bone jangling in my
mouth. But, sir, I had a wife and family,
and they wanted food. As it was, my poor
wile had to go to the workhouse to be con-
fined. At one time I started off to do away
with myself. I parted with my wife and
children, and went to say good-by to my
good friend, and it was he who saved my lil\>.
If it hadn't been for him it would have been
agooser with me, for I was prepared to finish
all. He walked about with me and reasoned
me out of it, and si^s he, ' What on earth will
become of the wife and the children ? '
" Im sufficiently well now to enable me to
reinime my old occupation, not as Glown but as
Pantaluon.
•* Alt^jgethcr — taking it all in all — I was
ihKi years as clown, and vciy successful and
a great favourite with the Jews. My standing
njbry for comic singing and dofiTi was eighteen
riiiUmgs a-week; but tlien at Christmas it
WIS always rose to thirty shillings or tliirty-
fire shillings. Then I did the writing and
painting, such as the placards for the (Uitside ;
loeh as, *This saloon is open this evening,'. ' \ i r
•ad such-like; and that, on tlie average, would |-*^o^'-"*c^ ^^ •
bring mo in eight shillings a-week.
**There was seven men and tlireo females in
my company when we played * Harlequin Blue
Beard,' for that's the one I shall describe to
you, and that we played for a considerable
time. I was manager at the time, and 1
atvays was liked by the company, for I never
ibed them or anything like that ; fur, you see,
I knew that to take sixpence from a poor man
was to take a loaf of bread from tho children.
"This pantomime was of my own writing,
and I managed the chorus and the dances, and
lH I painted the scenery*, too, and moulded
fte masks — about six altogether — and then
•fterwards played clo\vn. All this was in-
daded in my salary of eighteen shillings a-
veek, and that was the top price of the com-
He drives lover off stage, and is about to take
Fatima back to cottage, when castle gates
at back opens and discovers Blue Beard in
gondola, which crosses the stage in the waters.
Blue Beard wears a mask and a tremendous
long sword, which takes two men to pull
out. He's afterwards Clown, and I played the
part
" Several other gondolas cross stage, and
when the last goes off the chorus begins in
the distance, and increases as it approaches,
and is thus :
' In fire or in water, in earth or in air :
Wako \ip, old Blue Beard* these good things to
shuro :
Wako up I wako up I wake old up Blue Board,
theao ijpood things to share.*
"Then comes Blue Beard's march, and
enter troops, followed by Shackaback in a hurry.
He's Blue Beard's servant. He bears on Ma
shoulder an immense key, which he places in
the middle of stage. He then comes to the
front with a scroll, wliich he exhibits, on
which is written :
' Blue Board comes this rery day,
A debt of gratitude to wiy :
Aye, you noodn't trouble, it is all right,
lie inieuda to wed Fatima this very ni^jht.*
At which they all become alarmed, and in an
immense hxury of music enters Blue Beard
majestically. Ho sings, to the tune of * The
" The first scene was with a cottage on tho
left hand and with the surroundhig countiy
ia the back ; three rows of waters, with the
distant view of Blue Beard's c»Lstle. Enters
the lover (he's the Harlequin) in a disj,aiiso
diissed as a Tiu-k ; ho explains in thf panto-
inime that he should like to make the lady in tlie
Cdtlage his bride (which is Fatima, and at'ter-
^WiU Columbine). He goes to the cottage
Mul knocks three times, when she appears at
the window. She comes out and dances with
him. At the end of the dance tlio old man
comes in, to the tune of »Koa.st Beef of Old
England.* He wears a big mask, and is the
^4ther to Fatima, and afterwards Pantaloon.
When first I saw that lady,
As you may plainly aoo,
I thoucrht Hhe was tho handsomest girl
As over there could bo ;
8uch a cheerful chubby girl was she^
With such a pair of eyes.
With such a mouth, and such a noso,
That she ilid nie so nurimso :
Which made me cry out,
Hal Hal'
" Tho lover from tlie side says :
* You*ro no credit to your dada.'
"Then Blue Beard looks romid fiercely,
and his mask is made with eyes to work with
strings :
' But I shall him surprlso
Whon I opens my eyes,'
(and he opens a tremendous pair of saucer
eyes),
' That talks of my dear dada.'
Then the music goes * Ha ! ha ! ' As he draws
his sword into the army of four men, Shacka-
back gels it on the nose.
"Then Blue Beard goes direct to the old
man and embraces him, and shows him a big
purse of money. He then goes to the young
lady, but she refuses him, and says she would
sooner wed the young trooper. The old man
gets in a rage, when enters Demon unseen by
uU; he waves over their headi ; they then catch
hold of hands and dance round the key again,
to the tune of * The Boast Beef of Old Kug-
Xo. LXII.
124
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
land.' Then begins a choras which is thus,
to the time of * Stoney Batter :'
'Bound thlB mof^ic key
Oftily let us trudge it ;
Hoping eomething new
Will be brought to our ClulBtmas budget.
But a aong about a key.
Is but a doleAil matter.
So well sing one of our own.
And we'll call it Stoney Batter.
Bi too loo zal loo.'
(Fairies from the side :)
'Bitoolooralxidow*
(Others :)
* Bl too loo ral roo, loo ral lido.'
''After dancing roimd key. Blue Beard
orders two of the troops to seize the girl and
carry her to the castle. Then they catch
hands ond begin singing, to the tune of * Fine
Young Bachelors :'
* Here'* a \o\\j lot of us.
Fine Tundsh gcntlomen ;
With plenty of money in our purso,
Fine Turkish gentlemen,' Ac 4ic.
*'And the scene closes on this. Then
the lover just crosses, so as to give time to
arrange the back scene. He vows vengeance
on Bliio Beard. Then scene opens, and dis-,
covers a chamber with Fatiraa on couch, and
Demon behind with a large heart, on the
scene over which is in illuminated letters :
* Whosoe'er this dagger takes,
The magic spells oTBlue Beaxd breaks.'
The large key is placed at the foot of the
couch on which she is laying. We don't in-
troduce the haunted chamber scenes, as it
would have been too lengthened ; but it was
supposed that she had been there and exa-
mined it, and terror had overcome her and
she had swooned. That's when the audience
sees her. We couldn't do all the story at a
penny gafi, it was too long. To return to the
plot.
** Enter Fairy, who dances round the stage,
and sees the heart. She goes and snatches Uie
dagger ; then a loud crash, and the key falls
to pieces on the stage.
^* I had five shillings given me as a present
for that scene, for I had painted the scene all
arches, and round every pillar was a serpent
with fire coming from the mouth. I produced
that pantomime, so that altogether it did not
cost thirty shillings, because each man found
his own dress, don't you see.
'* After the crash enters Blue Beard. He
says the lady has broken the key, and he
is about to kill her; when enter lover, and he
has a terrific combat, in which they never hit
a blow (like a phantom-fight) ; but the lover
is about to be struck to the ground, when
enters Fairy, who speaks these words :
* Hold ! turn and turn is the Torkshire way.
Yoti think ours. Now your dog shall have itadnr*
Behold!'
^ Then the scene falls, and discovers a fauj
palace at back, with fairies, who sing :
' Gome, listen, gentle lover.
Come, listen unto me ;
Be guided by our faixy queen.
Who gained your liberty.'
'* They all look dismayed at one anotheii
and go to the sides ready for changing their
dresses for the comic woric
'' The Fairy Queen then says :
* Tou, the true lover, I think knows no sin.
Therefore grace our pantomime as Harlequin.*
** And turning to the lady she adds :
' N'ay, young lady, do not pine.
But attend him as his faithfiil Columbtna.'
<* Turning to Blue Beard :
' Tou, Blue Beard, a man of great renown.
Shall grace our pautomime as Christoias Clown.'
**Then Clown comes forward, and criei:
* Halla! ha, ha, ha! here we are ! Shobbus is
out;' (that's the Jewish Sunday); and, oh
dear ! how they used to laugh at that !
<* Then she turns to the old man :
*Tou, old man, you've been a silly loon.
Attend him as slippery fidgetty Pantaloon I*
^ Then as she's going off she says :
* Ah ! I'd almost forgotten ;
Never miud. it is all ri^ht;
Demon of the magic key.
Attend as Sprite.'
*' Then the fairies sing :
' We fairies danco, we fairies sing.
Whilst the silver moon is beaming ;
We fairies dance, we fairies sing,
To please oiur Fairy Queen.'
"Then there is blue fire, and the scent
closes, and the comic business begins.
** Clown dances first with Harlequin, and at
the end of trip hollars out : *Ha, here we are r
Then ho sings out, each time Harlequin beats
him, * A, E, I,' (Pantaloon drops in and gels
a blow, 0 1) ; and Clown says, * Tuppence ! i^
right, you owe me nothing; I shan't give you
no change.'
"Then there's a photography scene, and
Clown comes on and says, * Here, I say, what
shall we do for a living ? ' Then Pantaloon says,
* We'll become dancing-masters.* The Clown
saj-s, * They'll take Ukenesses.'
• * All, here's somebody coming !*
'Enter a swell with white ducks, and a
blacking-boy follows, says, * Clean your boetSy
sir?' Clown asks him to dean his. As the
boy is beginning, Harlequin bang^ him, and
he knocks the boy over. Next bang he gets
he hits Pantaloon, and says he did it. Panta-
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
129
looD says, ' I never touched you ;' and Clown
Tpplies, 'Then don*tdo it again.' Then I'd give
'em a rub np on the smoking mania. I'd
say to boy, ' Here, boy, take this farden to get
yomself a pipe of tobacco, little boys is fond
of smoking;' and Pantaloon would add, * Yes,
men's left off.' Boy goes off to buy the to-
bacco, and leaves his blacking-box, which
Clown promises to take care of and clean the
boots. He hollows out, 'Clean your boots?'
and Pantaloon puts his foot down, and gets
Us toes rapped. Enter a lady, who asks where
she can have her portrait taken, — ^Yes, raarm ;
orer there, — Clown steals parcel. When lady
is gone. Clown discovers parcel to contain
blank canls. This is what he takes the por-
traits on, and it was at a time when they was
all the rage at a shilling. Clown then says,
lie's taking portraits, and mokes a camera out
of the blacking-box. He cuts a hole in the
box, and sticks the blocking-bottle for a lens.
Then he places the box on Pantaloon's back
for a stand. Then, of course, Clown knocks
liimover, and he asks what that's for. * Why, if
you're a stand, what do you fall for ? I never
see such a stand.' Then ladies and gentle-
aien come in to have their portraits taken,
and Clown smears the cards with blacking
and gives it^ and asks a shilling ; when they
pramble and won't pay, he rubs the blacking
in their faces. General row, and the scene
changes to a street-scene. There's another
tiq) by Harlequin and Columbine, and enters.
Gown in a hurry with six fish, and he meets
Pantaloon. 'Look'ee here, what I've found!'
•Oh, fair halves ! ' 'All right! sit down, and you
ihall have them.' Pantaloon declines, and Clown
knocks him down, and they begin sharing fish.
* There's one for you and one for me, another
for you and another for me, another for you
and another for me.' * How many have you
got?' Bsk% Clown, and Pantaloon says, *One —
two — three.' Clown says, * No ! you've got
more than three.' Then, taking one up, he
asks, 'How many is that?' — *One.' Taking an-
other up, * How many's that ?' Pantaloon ex-
eliims, * Two ! ' Clown says, * Then two and
one is three,' and takes up another, and asks
liow many that is. Pantaloon exclaims, 'Three ! '
i^wn says, ' Then three and three makes six.'
down then counts his own, and says, ' I've
only got three; you must give me these three
to make me six. That's fair halves. Ain't
you satisfied ?' ' No I ' ' Then take that,' and
he knocks him over with a fish.
"The next scene is a public-house — 'The
f^masons' Arms, a select club held here.'
After trip by Harlequin and Columbine, enters
Clown and Pantaloon. 'Look'ee here! it's a
pnblic-house ! let's have half a pint of half-and-
half.' Clown hollows, 'Now ramrod I' meaning
landlord, and he comes on. ' Why don't you
Attend to gentlemen ? ' ' What's your pleasure,
ab?' * Hidf a pint of half-and-half for me and
my Mend.' He brings a tumbler, which Har-
lequin breaks, and it comes in half. * Hallo !'
cries Clown ; * this is mm half-and-half !
Here's half for you and half for me.*
*' Then they say, * I say, here's somebody
coming.' Enter two Freemasons, who give
each other the sign by shaking both hands,
bumping up against each other, whispering
in each other's ear, and going into the public-
house. Clown then calls the landlord, and
says he belongs to the club. Landlord asks
him for the sign. Clown says he's got it over
the door. He then takes Pantaloon and
shakes his hands, and bumps him, and asks
if that is the sign. The landlord says 'No.'
' Is that it?' * No, this is,' and he gives Clown a
spank; and he passes it to Pantaloon, and
knocks him down. * That's the sign ; now we've
got it between us.* *Yes, and I've got the
best half.'
*' Clown says, ' Never mind, we will get in ; '
and he goes to the door and knocks, when the
club descends and strikes them on the head.
CXovm. then tells Pantaloon to go and knock,
and he'U watch and see where it comes fVom.
The club comes down again, and knocks Pan-
taloon on the head ; but Clown sees from
whence it comes and pulls a man in fleshings
out of the window. Clown and Pantaloon
pursues him round stage, and he knocks them
both over, and jumps through a trap in the
window with a bottle on it, marked ' Old Tom,'
and a scroll falls down, written * Gone to
blazes.' Pantaloon follows, and flap falls, on
which is written, ' To be left till called for.*
Clown is about to follow, when gun fires and
scroll falls with ' Dead letter' on it. Pantaloon
is bundled out by landlord and others ; gene-
ral row; policemen springing rattles, fireworks,
Sec.
" There are from four to five comic scenes
like tliis. But it would take too long to de-
scribe them. Besides, we don't do the same
scenes every evening, but vary them each
night.
"Then comes the catch, or the dark scene,
in which Clown, Pantaloon, Harlequin, and
Columbine are in the dark, and seize one
another.
* Hold I you've done your best with all your might;
Aud we'll give our friends a chaigo another
nigiit.'
*' You see the poetry is always beautifully
adapted to ourselves. They've very clever
fairies.
** We in generally finale with that there :
' Wo fairies dance; we fairies sing.
Whilst the silver moon is beajooimg ;
We fairies dance, wo fairies sing,
And we have pleased our Fairy Queen.
"Then the bell rings, and the man who
keeps order cries out, * Pass out ! pass out I'
** The performance generally takes from one
hour and a half to an hour and three-quarters,
and we do three of 'em a night. It makes the
perspiration run off you, and eveiy house I
126
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOS.
have a wet shirt. The only rest I have is with
any boy singing * Hot codlms.* >Vhen they call
for the song I sa)', *Yc8, yes; all right; you
shall have them; only there's a chip of mine
will sing it for me,' and I introduce my httle
boy— of four then— to sing.
"The general pay for Clowns at penny ex-
hibitions is averaging ttom twenty to twenty*.
five shillings a-week. Yon can say without
exaggeration, that there are twenty of these
penny exhibitions in London. They always pro-
duce a new pantomime at Christmas ; and all
the year ruund, in summer as well as winter,
they bring 'em out, when business is shy, for a
draw, whi(>Ji they alwayv find them answer.
" A Clown that can please at a penny
gafi", is ca]table of gi\ing satisfaction at any
theatre, for the audience is a very difficult one
to entertain. They have no delicacy in 'em,
and will hiss in a moment if anything dis-
pleases tliem.
"A pantomime at a penny exhibition will
run at Christmas three weeks or a month, if
very successful ; and during that time it's played
to upwards of twelve hundn-d persons a-night,
according to the size of the house, for few
penny ones hold more than four hundred,
and that's three times a-uight. The Rotunda
in the Jtlackfriars'-road, and the Olympic Cir-
cus in the Lower Marsh, Lambeth, dr) an im-
mense business, for they hold near a thousand
each, and that's three thousand spectators the
night.
** When the pantomime is on we only do a
little comic singing before it begins playing."
TuE Canvas Clown.
A TALL, fine-looking young fcUow, with a
quantity of dark hair, which he wore tucked
behind his ears, obhged me with his experience
as a olo^Ti at the fairs. He came to me
dressed in a fashionable **i)alutot," of a ginger-
bread colour, which, without being questioned
on the subject, he told me ho had bought in
Petticoat Luiie for three shillings.
I have K<.>1dom seen a finer-built youth than
tliis clown, for he was proportioned like a
statue. The peculiarity of his face was that,
at the junction of the forehead with the nose
there was a rising, instead of a hollow, some-
what like that which is seen in Homan anti-
quities.
His face, whilst talking, was entirely with-
out emotion, and he detailed the business
outside tlie show, on the parade, in a sing-
song voice, like a child saving its lesson ; and
altliough he often said " This makes 'em shout
with laughter,** his own face remained as so-
lemn as a parish clerk's.
He furnished me with the following parti-
culars of his life : —
•* On and off, I've been clowning these
twelve year. Pre\'iou8 to that time, I have
done busking in pubhc-houses, and comic
singing, and ballet performing at penny exhi-
bitions ; as well as parading oatside shows at
fairs. I've done clowning at near every place.
at fairs and in the streeta, along with a school
of acrobats, and at circuses, and at penny
gafis, and at the Standard, and such-like. 1
first commenced some twelve years ago, st
Enfield fair. It was a travelling concern I wsi
with,— the 'Thespian Temple,' 'or JohiW
son's Theatre,— where I was engaged to pa-
rade on the outside as a walking ^^entlemaiu
There was no clown for the pantomime, for he
had disappointed us, and of course they couldnt
get on without one ; so, to keep the concern
going, old Jolmson, who knew I was a good
tumbler, came up to me, and said ' he had
iianti vampo, and your nabs must fake it;*
which means, — We have no clown, and yoQ
must do it. So I done the clowning on the
parade, and then, wlien I went inside, I'd pot
on a jiair of Turkish trousers, and a long
cloak, and hat and feathers, to play * Bobert,
duke of Normandy,' in the first piece,
** You SCO the iKi-forraances consisted of all
gag. I don't supp(»so anybody knows what
the words are in the piece. Everj'body at a
show theatre is expected to do general busi-
ness, and wln^n you're short of people (as
we was at .Johnson's, for wo played * Robert,
duke of Normandy,' with tlireo men and twe
gills). Clown is expected to come on and slip
a cloak over his dress, and act tragedy in the
first piece. We don't make u^) so heavy for
the clown for fjiirs, only a Uttle dab of red oa
the cheeks, and powder on the face ; so we*Tt
only just got to wipe off the * slop * when ifk
in the way. You lot)ks rather pale, that's alL
The dress is hidden by the ono we put over
it,
*♦ The plot of * Robert, duke of Normandy,'
is this : He and his slave Piccoli* come
I in ; and after a little busini.»ss between
I them, oil gagging, he says, * Slave ! get
! ba*rk to the castle ! ' he answers, * Your orders
i shall be atU'uded to I ' Thou he says, ' At the
peril of your life, and prevent the fair Ange-
line to escape ! ' That's the first scene. In
1 the second, two of Ilobert's slaves attack his
j rival, and then Robert rushes in and pretends
I to save him. He cries * Hold! two to one I'
The men go off, sajing, *Well, we part as
fiiends ! when next we meet, we meet as foes !'
As soon as Robert leaves the rival the lady
comes in, and tells him slie is flying from Ro-
bert's castle, and that Robert has seduced
her, and seeks her life. She tells him that
tlie man who just left him is he. ' It is
false!' he suys; * that is my friend I* She
cries, * Test him ! ' * But how ?*' he asks. She
replies,* Follow me to tlie statue, at the bot-
tom of the grove, and then I will tell you I '
Then the third comes on. Enter Robert and
slave, and tlie marble statue discovered: that
is, it is supposed to be, but it is only Angelina
dressed up. H«> gives tlie slave instnictionR to
put a ring on the finger of the statue, — for
he is supposed to have dealings with Old Nick^
LOimON LABOUR AKD THE LOSDOS I'OUU.
Ii7
ftt erery tiin« he pat a ziDg on the statne
I demand a irictim. He teUs the slave to
a ring OD the finger, and pronounce
irordi : *• When it may pleaae your most
na migesty to seek ^rour hnsband, to
victim, yon irill find hun here ! ' *No, no,
se— there ! ' pointing to BoberL The
half draws his sword, and exclaims,
b! what ho!* without touching him.
s the rival, who demands satisfaction of
1 ; who sa>*s, ' "What can I do to satisfy
ibr he's in a deuce of a go now. He
tells him to kneel to the statue, and
he is not Robert, dnko of Normandy.
id of that he calls to the servant, and
lim to put the ring on ; but Kobert, the
, is in a dence of a way, tearing his
The servant does it, and exclaims, * I
lone it ; but would you believe it, when
ed it on the finger, tlie finger beciime
sed ! ' Robert cries, * Slave, tb<m art
I if I find that it is false I will cleave
to the enrth I ' Robert examines the
, and exclaims, *Alas! it is too true I'
le kneels to the statne and siiys, • I
that I am ' — and he's goiuj; to say, * not
of Normandy,' but Uie statue is too
for him, and adds, * Robi>rt, duke of
■ndy!' And then the comic slave pops
ead round, and pronoimces, ' Oh, tlie
' Then the ri\'al stabs him, and he follK
wounded, and then he's triumphant;
I pen'orth of blue fire finishes tlic
* and then ding ! ding ! dong 1 and
goes tlie curtain. 'NVe alwa^'s have
Ire, — a pen'orth each house, — andthut
; it go. Sometimes there are two friends
piece ; but it all depends upon M-heth(.>r
wre is powerfully cast or not We usually
* the two friends into one, or does away
•em all tojrether. ' Robert, duke of
andy,' is a never-failing fair piece, and
rays cIo^'s it overj-yeAr. Thai and * Rluo
, or Female Curiosity,' and * Fair Kosa-
, or the Bower of Woodstock,' are
ock pieces. After the curtain has been
three minutes it goes up again, and tlie
goes in and says, —
* Elr<jii of th« mountain, dale, and dell,
Tnia yu\in^ maid to pleaue within her cell,
Atteud unto us, one und all —
liHcen to your potent master's calL'
hen an of us at the sid(>s put their
s in their mouths and howl like Indians.
"s generally a cue given of * Now, demons.'
that the heavy man says :**
* Too, jomig man, that knows no dn.
Appear as russet-booted Harlequin.'
illed him russet-booted, because he had
playing the lover in the first piece. At
idson's they called him * Spangled Har-
I,* but old Johnson couldn't do that, he
t no wardrobe. Then the heavy man con-
' And you, younrmiid. no lonirer pine,
Atteud him as hia (aithAil C<dumbine.'
Then he goes on : —
' Two more slaves will I rise flnom out the uo&thom-
abledocp,
Who for a long time have been in perpatual aleep;
They, too, shall share my boon —
ApiK>ar as Clown and tottering Pantaloon.
Now away ! begin your magic sfiort.
And briug mo buck a good reporL'
Then I cried, * Hulloa! here we are !' and the
sports begin.
"The first iripy as we calls it — a dance, to
use your terms — is Harlequin comes in with
Columbine for a hornpipe. If he cant dance,
Clown, as soon as he begins, cries, * Here we
ai-e ! ' and rushes in and drives them ofil
"After that, Clown runs on and 8ays»
* Hero we ore I ' and knocks; Pantaloon down i
whi^ exclaims, * Oh ! ain't I got the tooth-ache !
Clown says, * Let me feel your tooth. Oh, it's
quite loose ! I'll get a bit of string and soon
have it out.' Clown goes off for string. Pan-
taloon singing out, * Murder ! murder ! ' Clovra
returns with string and a pistol, and then
ties the string, and cries, * Here goes one, end
now it's two, and hero goes three,' and fiiea
and pulls a wooden tooth, as big as your fist,
with four sharp prongs to it. Ivo had the»
teeth often as big as a quartern loaf, but
I'm talking of my first appearance. Pai'«
t^oon says, * Here, that's my tooth !' on 1
Clown replies. * So it is,' and hits him on tha
head with it. Then he asks Pantaloon if he'j
iMJtter ; but he answers, ' No, l"m W(/rse. Oh !
oil! I've got a cold in my gum ! ' Then a red-
hot poker id introduced, and he bums him with
it all round the stage. That concludes the
first scene. Tlien there's another trip, a would-
be polka or so; and then comes the bundle -
scene. Enter a York.Hhiremon — it's mostly
Harlequins do this, liocause most of the others
are outside parading, to keei) the crowd
tof^etlier — he's got a amockfrock on and russet
boots at Johuson's, and he says, * I've coome up
hero to Lunnon to see my Dolly. I feel rather
drj', and I'll just gi' in here to get half-o-point
of yale. I'll just leave mybunnel outside, and
keep a strict eye on it, for they say as how
Lunnon has plenty of thieves in it* Enter
Clown, very cautiously. He sees the bundle,
and calls Pantaloon. He tells Pantaloon, * I
must have it, because I want iL* He goes and
picks up the bundle, and says to Pantaloon,
* I shoiddn't wonder but what this bundle be-
longs to • * Me,' the Yorkshireman says, and
the Clown says, *Ah, I thought so;' and then
he takes Pantaloon's hand, and says, * Come
along, little boy, we shall get into trouble,' and
leads him ofi". They come on again, and tliis
time Clown tells I^antaloon to get it ; so he
goes and picks up the bimdle, and Yorkshire-
man knocks him down. Clown runs ofi" and
Pantaloon after. Clown tlien returns on his
belly, drawing himself on with his hands.
128
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
He <;ots tlic bnndle in his mouth, and is just
gni]i«; off when Yorkshireman turns roand, and
CliAvn seeing liim, fi^ves the bundle to Pan-
taloon, and says, * Hold this.* Yorkshireman
seizes Clown and tells him he wants his bundle.
Pantalfjon having run away with it. Clown
says, * I haven't got it, starrh me' (that means,
• search me') ; and there is a regular run over
the <itai?e rrjing * Hot beef! hot beef!* (in-
stead of *St(ip thief!*) The Yorkshireman
collars Pantaloon, and says, * I'll take you to
the station-house,' and Clown exclaims, * Yes,
and 111 take this bundle down the lane' (mean-
ing Petticoat-lane, because there is a sale for
any tiling there). Then comes the catch-scene
lis we rnll it ; that is, they all come on in the
dark, Clown singing, * J Miss, puss I have you
seen my pussy*' Thfn in pops tlie fair}', and
erics, • Hold I your ningic sports is run, and
thus I step l»etweon.' Pantaloon adds, *Aye,
it's all so gay;' and Clown cries, 'Yes, and
oil serene; ' and the fair}' says, * And witli my
magic wand I change the scene.' Then every-
body sings : —
' Xow our pontoniime's douc.
Here's ftn end to our fun,
TVo slmll nhortly couiinunco again :
Our tricks arc o'er.
And wo'ro friends onco more.
Wo shall shortly commcuco :kg:uu.'
" Thon the curtain falls, and Clown puts his
head out on one side and exclaims, * It's all,'
and Pantaloon pops out at the other side and
adds, * over.'
" The handing man, who has done Robert,
then shouts out from tlie top, * Pass out ! ' in a
sepulchral voice, and a door opens in the side
of the stage for the people to leave by. That
day I was with old .Tohnson — we used to call
him * Snutfy Johnson,' 'cos he carried a lot of
snuff in his waistcoat pocket — we were very
busy, and there was a good many people
waiting on the outside to come in, so we
only did about two of them regular per-
formances ; and then about six o'clock in the
evening the crowd got so great, old Johnson
used to hollow through the parade-door, over
people's heads, * John Aderley,' just as we had
commenced pla}'ing, and that meant * Cut it
short.' We used to finish it up sharp then, and
finish all up in six or seven minutes. We used
to knock liobert the Devil into a very little
space, doing the scenes, but cutting them
shoil; and as for the pantomime, wo had
scarcely commenced witli * Two more slaves
will I rise fn)m out the unfathomable deep,'
than we were singing, * Our pantomime's done,
here's an end to our fun.' Sometimes the
people would grumble awful, and at others
they laughed to see how they was swindled.
*• I got on very fair on my first appearance
as Clown, considering the circumstances, but
I had, you see, four of the best parading comic
men opposing me. There was Teddy W as
Silly Billy, and Black Sambo as Black Fop,
and Funny Felix as ring clown, and Steve
Sanderson, another clown, at Frazier's Ciis
cus, next door to us; and we didn't stand
much chance at clowning alongside of them,
as they're the best panulers ont Besides,
Frazier's booth took nearly all the ground up ;
and as we drawed up on the ground (that is,
with the parade-cmriages) late on Sunday
evening, we were obliged to have a plot next to
the Circus, and we had the town pump right in
the audience part, close to the first seat in the
gallery, and the Obelisk — or rather a cross it
is — took up one side of the stage, wliich next
day we used as the castle in Blue Beard, when
the girl gets up on a ladder to the top of th«
railings, which had a shutter on 'em, and that
was Fatima looking out from the spire of the
castle for her Salem. Ah ! 'twas a great hit,
for we put an old scene round it, and it had a
capital etfect.
•* What we do when we go out clowning to a
travelling theatro is this. This is what I did
at Enfield: wi^ anivc<l late and drawed up the
pnrodo-carriages on the ground, which tba
gov. had gone cm a-head to secure. Then
we went to sleep for awhile — pitched on a
shutter underneath the parade-carriages, for
it ha<l been wet weather, and we couldn't sleep
on the canvas for the booth, for it had been
sopped with rain at Edmonton fair. As soon
as it was break of day we begun getting up
the booth, and being short-handed it took na
till three o'clock before we was ready. YisA
we had to measure our distances and fix tha
parade-waggons. Then we planted our king
pole on tho ono in the centre ; then we pot
our back -polo on the one near the parade;
then wo put on our ridge at top, and our side-
rails; and then we put our side-ridges, and
sling our rafters. We then roll the tilt up,
which is for the roof, and it gets heavy with
dirt, and we haul it up to the top and unndl
it again and fasten it again ; then we fix the
sides up, with shutters about six feet square,
which you see on the top of the travelling
parade-carriages. We fixes up the theatre
and the seats which we take with us. All the
scenes roll up, and is done up in bundles.
The performci-s drop under the parade-waggons,
and there's a sacking up to divide the men's
part from the women. There's a looking-
glass — sometimes an old bit or a two-pennj
one starred, or any old thing we can get hold
of — and the gov. gives you out your dress.
We always provide our own slips and such-
like.
**When we panule outside, it all depends
upon what kind of Pantaloon you\e got with
you, OS to what business you can make.
TMien we first come out on the parade all
the company is together, and we march round,
form a half-circle, or dress it, as we say, while
the band pla}'8 ' Rule Britannia,' or some other
operatic air. Then the manager generally
calls out, ' Now, Mr. Menry'man, state the
nature of the performances to be given here
to-day.* Then I come forward, and this is the
LONnON LABOUR AKD THE LONDOyf POOR,
129
•us : * Well, ITr. Martin, whot am I to tell
?• • The truth, sir ! what they'll see here
'.' * Well, if they stop long enough
I see a great many people, I shouldn't
er.' 'Xo, no, sir, I want you to tell
iriiot they'll see inside our theatre.*
, sir, they'll see a splendid drama by first-
performers, of Robert Dookc of Nor-
y, with a variety of singing and dancing,
a gfirgeous and comic piuitomime, with
dresses and scenen% and everjlhing
ine;l to make this such an entertainment
s never before witnessed in this town, and
•r the small charge of three shillings.'
no, Mr. Menyman, threepence.' * What !
pence ? I shan't perform at a threepenny
.• And then I pretend to go down the
as if lea\ing ; he pulls me back, and says,
te here, sir; what are you going to do ?'
jn't spoil my deputation playing for three-
!/ * But you must understand, Merry-
we intend giving them one and all a
, that the working - classes may ei^joy
selves as well as noblemen.' * Then &
\ the case I don't mind, but only for this
lien I begin spouting again and again,
rs ending up with * to be witnessed for the
rharge of threepence.' Then Pantaloon
8 up to say what he's going to do, and I
bim the ' nap,' and knock hun on his back.
lies • I'm down,' and I turn him over and
him up, and say, *And now you're up.'
I the company form a half set and do a
cille. When they have scrambled through
down will do a comic dance, and then
burlesque statues. This is the way
ftatues are done : I go inside and get a
-broom, and put a large piece of tilt or
loth round me, and stand just inside the
ins at the entrance from the parade,
• to come out when wanted. Then the
portion of the company get just to the
/the steps, and Pantaloon says to one of
, *Did yon speak?* He says, *When?'
Pantaloon says, *Now;' and the whole
ake a noise, hollowing out, * Oh, oh, oh ! '
they was astonished, but it's only to
!t attention. Then the gong strikes, and
TODpets flourishes, and everybody shouts,
hi ! look here I ' Then, naturally, all the
e turn towards the caravan to see what's
Then they clear a passage-way from the
to the entrance and back, and bring me
with this bit of cloth before me. The
3 flourishes again, and they mnke a tre-
lous tumult, crying out, ' Look here ! look
!' and when aJl are looking I drop the
, and then I stand in the position of
oles, king of Clubs, with a birch-broom
8 my shoulders, and an old hat on a-top
y wig. Then the band strikes up the
e music, and I goes through the statues;
as AJax defying the lightning, and Cain
ig his brother Abel; and it finishes up
the fighting and d^ing Gladiator. As a
finale I do a back-fall, and pretend to be dead.
The company then picks me up and carry me,
lying stiff, on their shoulders round the
parade. They carry me inside, and shout out,
*A11 in to begin; now we positively com-
mence.' Then they drive everybody in off the
parade. When the public have taken their
seats then we come strolling out, i>ne at a
time, till we all get out on the parade again,
because the place isn't sufficiently full. It's
what wo call * making a sally.' The check-
takers at the door prevent anybody leaving if
they want to come out again.
" Then I get up to some nonsense again.
Perhaps I'll get up a lot of boys out of the
fair, and make 'em sit on the parade in a row,
and keep a schr)ol, ns I call it. I get an old
property fiddle, and I tell them, when I play
they must sing. Then I give out a hymn.
The bow has a lot of notches in it, and there's
a bit of wood sticking up in the fiddle; bo
that when I plays it goes ' ricketty, ricketty,'
like. This is the hymn I gives out: —
* When I cftn shoot my rifle clear
At pi^Ds in the skiee,
I'll bid ukrcwoU to pork and pc;\s,
And live on pigeon pies.'
" Of course, when they sings, they make a
horrible noise, or even if they dont, I begin
to wallop them with my bow. I then tell
them I must teach them something easier
first. Then I give them —
' Alas I old Grimes is dead and orotic,
We no'or ahull soe him more ;
Ho used to wear a old great coat
^Vll buttoned down before.'
Then I finish up by putting on the boys a
lot of masks, and some have old soldiers'
coats; and I give them implements of war,
such as old brooms or sticks, and then I put
them through their military exercises. I
stand in front, with the birch -broom as my
gun, and I tell them they must do as I do.
Then I cry, * File arms,' and all mark their
own muskets. I tell them to lay them all
down; and after they have laid down their
arms I tell them to shoulder arms, which
makes a shout, because they haven't got no
arms. One boy, who is put up to it, says,
* Fve got no arms ; ' I go up to him and catch
hold of his arms, and ask him what he calls
' these here.' Then I make him put them on
his shoulders, and tell him, that's ' shoulder
arms.' Then I tell them to ground arms,
and I do it at the time, stooping down and
putting my arms on the ground. I then call
them to attention, and up comes the Pan-
taloon on a basket-horse, and I tell them
they are going to be re\iewed by the Duke,
I give them all the implements again, and
put them to stand attention. Pantaloon
gallops round them, reviewing. He wears
a large flap cocked-hat and soldier's old coat.
He makes a bit of fun with his horse, making
180
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR
it kick, and breaking the ranks of my sol-
diers. ' Then I quarrel with him about that,
and he says, * He's a right to do as he likes,
because he's my superior horse-ifer.' Then
he orders me to the other end of the parade,
to stand attention, with my back towards
the boys. Then he tells them to ride about
face and charge, and they all run and charge
me in behind. They run two or three
times round the parade, still charging mc,
until I run inside to the theatre, and all tlie
company shout out, * All in to begin ; we are
now positively to commence.' We then get
them in off the parade again, and if. the place
is full begin ; if not, we gradually crawl out
again one by one, and one of the girls dunces
a hompiiMJ or a Highland fling. We then
make a sally, 'All in again,' and by that time
we generally begin.
" This is the parade business that is most
popular at fairs; we do a few other things,
but they are all much of a muchness. It's
ver>' liard work; and I have worked, since
being Yiixh Snuffy Johnson, seventeen hours
of a-day ; but then we have not had so much
to do on the outside. Sometimes I've been
so tired at night, that I've actually laid down
in my dress and never washed, but slept like
that all night.
*' The general pay for a clown, during fair-
time, is 5s. or G«. a-day, but that usually ends
in your moving on the first day ; then 4«. on
the second, and, perhaps, d«. on the third. The
reason is, that the second and third day is
never so good as the first The excuse is,
that business is not so good, and expenses are
hea\7 ; and if you don't like it, you needn't
come again. They don't stand about what
you agree for ; for instance, if it's a wet day
and you don't open, there's no pay, Richard-
son's used, when the old man was alive, to
be more money, but now it's as bad as the
rest of 'em. If you go on shares with a
sharing company it averages about the same.
We always share at the drum-head at night,
when all's over. It's usually brought out
between tho stage and the bottom seat of
the gallcrj'. The master or missus counts
out the money. The money on the dnmi-
head may, if it's a good fair, come to 10/.
or 18/., or, as it most usually is. 0/. or 10/.
I have known us to sliare 1/. a-piece afore
now ; and I've known what it is to take \0d.
for a share. We usually take two fairs a-
week, or we may stay a night or two after tlio
fair's over, and have a bespeak night. The
wages of a clown comes to — if you average
it — 1/. a- week all the year round, and that's
puffing it at a good salary, and supposing
you to be continually travelling. Very likely,
at night we have to pull do'wn the booth
after performing all day, and be off that night
to another fair — 15 or 16 miles off it may
be — and have to build up again by the
next afternoon. The women always ride on
the top of the parade carriages, and the men
occasionally riding and shoring op behind tlia
carriages up hill. The only comfort in tn-
veiling is a short pipe, and many a time Tie
drowned my woes and troubles in one.
** The scene of sharing at the drum-head is
usually this, — wliile the last performance is
going on the missus counts up the money ; and
she is supposed to bring in all the money aha
has token, but that we don't know, and we
are generally fiddled most tremendous. When
the theatre's empty, she, or him, generally
says, * Now lads, please, now ladies ! it's get-
ting late ;' and when they have all mustered
it's generally the cry, * We've had a bad fair I'
The i)eople seldom speak. She then takes
the numlHjr of the company, — wo generaHy
averages some sixteen performers,— and aftes
doing so she commences sharing, taking im
two or three shares, according to tlie grouna*
rent ; one then to herself for taking money; then
for the husband being there, (for they dont
oflon perform) ; then they takes shares for the
children, for they makes them go on for tlia
fairies, and on our parade. Snuffy Johnaon
used to take two shares for the wardrobes and
fittings, and that is the most reasonable of
any of 'em, for they mostly take double that;
indeed, we always took six. Then there an
two shares for groimd-rent, and two for travel-
ling expenses. The latter two shares depend
entirely upon the fair ; for the expenses an
just the some whether we takes money or nol|
so that if it's a bad fair, more has to be de-
ducted, and that's the worse for us, on both
sides. That makes twelve or thirteen shttes
to be deducted before the men touch a penny
for themselves. Any strolling profesaional
who reads that will say, * Well, 'tis yery oflo-
siderate; for it's imdcr tho mark, and not
over.'
" When we have finished at one fair, if vs
want to go to another the next day, as soon
as tho people have gone in for the last peiibr-
mance we commence taking down the pay-
box, and all tho show-fittings on the outside,
and all that isn't wanted for the perfbrmanee.
As soon as the mummers have done their fijst
slang, if they are not wanted in the panto-
mime they change themselves and go to worit
pulling down. When the pantomime's over,
every one helps till all's packed up; then
sharing tikes place, and we tramp on oy night
to the next fair. Wc then camp as well as we
can till daylight, if it isn't morning already,
and to work wc go building for the lair ; anil
in general, by the time we've done building,
it's time to open.
" I've travelled witli ' Star's Theatre Royal,*
and * Smith and Webster's,' (alias Bichard-
son's), and * Frederick's Theatre,' and * Baker's
ra\'iliou,' and * Douglass's travelling Shak-
spearion Saloon;* (he's got scenes from
Shokspeor's plays all round the front, and it's
the most splendid concern on the road), and
I've done ii^iQ comic business at all of them.
They are all conducted on the same principle,
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
131
and do the some kind of business, as that I've
de?cril>ed to you.
•* When we're travelling it depends upon
the business as to what we eat. They talk of
stTi tiling actors li>-ing so joUily and well, but
I never knew it fall to my share. "NVhat we
call a mummer's feed is potatoes and herrings,
and thpy always look out for going into a town
where there's plenty of fresh herrings. A fol-
low we e:dled Nancy Dawson was the best
hand at herrings. I've known him go into a
tavern and o-sk for the bill of fore, and shout
oQit * WlU, Landlord, what have you got for
dinner? Perhaps he'd say, * There's beef and
Tral, sir, very nice — just ready;' and then
be'd say, ' No, I'm sick of meat; just get mo
a nice bloater I ' and if it came to much more
than a penny there was a row. If we are
doing bad business, and we pass a field of
5wedt:s, there's a general rush for tlie pull. Tlie
beil judges of turaips is strolling professionuls.
I recollect, in Hampshire, once getting into a
swede Held, and they was all blighted: we
pulled up a hundred, I should think, but when
▼e cut them open tliey was nil flaxy inside,
iDd we, after all, had to eat the rind. We
couldn't 1,'et a fee^l. Sausages and fagots
(that's made of all the stale sausages and
Sivaloys, and unsightly bits of meat what
wont scdl) is what we gi?ts hold of princi-
pally. The women have to make sliifts as we
dft. We always get plenty of beer, even when
we can't get money ; fur we can sing a song or
80, and then the yokels stand something:
Iteiddef^ there's hardly a town we gf) into
without some of the yokels being stage-struck,.
and they feel quite delighted to be among tlie
prc'fiessionals, and will give us plenty of beer
if wv'll talk to them about acting.
" It's impossible to say how many clowns
there are working at canvas theatres. There's
80 many meddling at it, — not good uns, but
tzring to be. I can mention fifty, I am sm-e,
by nam?, I shouldn't think you would exagge-
rate, if you was to say there was from one
hundred and fifty to two hundred who call
th«iis^?lves clowns. Many of the first-rate
cli»v.7is now in London have becnui at stroll-
m-^. There's Herring, and Lewis, and Nel-
MD. and plenty more, doing well now.
" It's a hard life, and many 's the time we
fqu-»edg*^ a laugh out, when it's like killing us to
do iu I've never known a man break down
at a fair, done up, for, you see, the beer
keeps us up ; but I've kiumn one chnp to
ftint on the parade from oxliausiion, and then
gel up. as queer as could be. and draw twopence
and go and have a fish and bread. A woman
tt an oyster-stall alongside of the theatre
give him a rlrop of beer. He was hearty and
unjjT}-, and had only Joined lately, — regular
hard up ; so he went two days witliout food.
When we shared at night he went and
bought a ham-bone, and actually eat himself
•deep, for he dropped off with the bone in
lushand."
The Penny-Ciecus Jesteb.
A MAN who had passed many years of his
life ns jester at the cheap circuses, or penny
equestrian shows frequenting the fairs in the
neighbourhood of London, obliged me with the
following details: —
** There are only two kinds of clowns, the
stage and the circus clown, only there is dif-
ferent denominations: for instance, the clown
at the fair and the clown at the regular theatre,
as well as the j)enny gatf (when they give pan-
tomimes there), are one and the same kind of
clo^^-n, only better or worse, according to the
pay and kind of performance ; but it's the same
sort of business. Now the circus clown is of the
same kind as those that go about with schools
of acrobats and negro serenaders. He is ex-
pected to be witty and say clever things, and
invent anything he can for the evening's per-
foniiauce ; but the theatre cloT^-n is expected
to do nothing but what enters into the biL«»iness
of the piece. Them two are the main distinc-
tions we make in the perfession.
" I've travelled nlong with only two circuses ;
but then it's the time you stop with them, for
I was eighteen months along Avith a man of the
name of Johnson, who performed at the Albion,
AVhitechapel, and in 5luseum-street, opjiositc
Drury-lane (he had a penny exhibition then),
and for above two years and a half along
vTiih Veale, wlio had a circus at the Birdcage,
Hackney-road, and at Walworth.
*' At ^luseum-street we only had one * prad,'
which is slang for pony, although we used to
introduce all the circus business. We had
jugglers, and globe-nmners, and tight-rope
dancers also. We never ha<l no ring bmlt,
but only sawdust on the stage, and all the wings
taken out. They used to begin with a chant and
a hop (singing and dancing), after which there
was tight-rope hopping. As soon a<< ever the
rope was drawn up, Johnson, who had a whip in
his hand, the same as if it was a rejnihu* circus,
used to sny, ' Now, Mr. Merrjinan.' Tlien I'd nm
on and answer, 'Here I am, sir, aU of a lump,
as the old man said what found the sixpence.
I'm up and dressed, like a watchbox. WhatshaU
I have the pleasure for to come for to go, for to
go for to fetch, for to fetch for to carrj', to
oldige you ? ' I usually wore a ring dress, with
red rings round my tmnks, and a fly to cor-
lespond. The tights had straight red lines.
My wig was a white one with a red comb. Then
Johnson would say, ' Have the pleasure to
announce ^Madame Leone.' Then I give it:
' Larlies and gentlemen, this is Madame Leone,
a young lady that threw her clothes into bed
and hung herself upon the door-nail.' Then sho
just gets up on the rope, and I go and sit down
as if I was going to sleep. Mr. Johnson then
says, 'Come, sir,you're going to sleep ; you've got
your eyes shut.' I answer, * I beg your pardon,
sir, I was not asleep.' And then he says I was,
and I contradict him, and add, * If I had my
132
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
eyes shut, I am the first of the family that
went to sleep so.' Then he asks how that is ?
and I reply, * Because they were afraid of
ha\ing their pockets picked;* and he says,
* Nonsense! all your family was ver>' poor,
tliere was nothing in their pockets to pick ; *
and I add, * Yes, but there was the stitches
though.' All these puns and catches goes
immense. * Now, sir,' he continues, ' chalk the
rope.' I say, * Whose place is it?* and he re-
plies, * The fool's.' * Then do it yourself,' I
answer. And then we go on in this style. He
cries, * What did you say, sir?' * I said I'd do
it mj-self.' * Now, Madame Leone, are you
ready?' and she nods; and then I tell the
music to toodelloo and blow us up. She then
does a step or two — a little of the polka — and
retires, and I am told to chalk the rope again,
and this is our talk ; * Oh dear, oh dear ! tliere's
no rest for the wicked. Sir, would you lie so
kind, so obliging, as to infonn mo why I chalk
the top of the rope ?' * To prevent the young
lady from slipping down, sir.' ' Oh, indeed 1
then I'll chalk undcmeatli the rope.' He then
asks, *What are you doing of, sir?' 'Why
didn't you tell me when I chalked the top it's
to prevent the yoimglady from slipping down ? '
* Yes, sir.' * Then I chalked underneath, to
prevent her ftova. slipping up again. Would
you oblige mo with your hand?' Then I look
at it and say, * Plenty of corns in it; you've
done some hard work in your time.' ' I have,
sir.' ' Beautiftd nails, too;' and then I rub
the chalk on his hand, and when he asks what
I'm doing of, I say ' Chalking it.' * "VMiat for,
sir?' * Why, sir, to keep it from slipping into
other people's pockets.' Then he gives me a
click of whip and says, * Out of the way, sir!
Now, Madame Leone, proceed.'
**^Nlien she's finished tlie dance I cry,
*Now I'll get on the rope and have a try,*
and I mount very courageously, crying,
' I'd bo a batcher'4 bov.
Bom in the Borough,
Beef-steaks to-day
And mutton chopn to-morrow.'
" Then I find the rope move, and pretend
to be frightened, and cry, * 0 Lord, don't !
it shakes.' Then I ask, * Mr. Johnson, will
you chalk my pulse and hand me up tlie
barber's-pole ? ' and when I've got it I say,
* Here's a nice ornament on a twelfth-cake.'
I also ask him, * I say, sir, did you ever know
some of my friends was first-rate rope-dancers?'
* No, sir.' * Oh yes, sir. they danced to some
of the large houses.' * What house was that,
sir ? was it Victoria ?' * I know nothing about
Victoria, sir; you must ask Albert.' * Perhaps,
sir, it was the Garrick.* * Oh, catch my
brother dancing in a garret' * Perhaps, sir,
it was Covent Garden.* * No, sir, he never
danced in no garden, nor a lane neither.'
' Perhaps, sir, it was the Haymarket' ' No.
sir; nor the Corn-market.* * I see, sir, you
can't remember the house.* *No, sir; I'll
tell you, sir, it's a high stone building between
Holbom and Newgate-market.' * Oh, you
mean Newgate.' *Yes, sir; don't you re-
member we were botli in there for pot steal-
ing?' 'Come down here, sir, and I'll give
you a flogging.' * You mean to say, sir, yoxOl
give me a flogging if I come down ?' • Yes,
sir.' * Then, sir, I shall remain where I am.'
I then tell the music to toodelloo and blow
us up, and I attempt to dance, and he lets the
rope down, which throws me on to my back.
He asks, * Are you hurt?' and I reply, • No,
I'm killtid.' *Get up, sir.' 'I'll not move,
sir.' * I'll give you Uie whip, sir.' * That's no
use, sir ; I've made a bargain with it, that if
I don't touch it it won't touch me. Oh,
ain't I bad I I've got the cobbler's marbles, or
else the hen-flew-out-f»f-the- window.' * Here's
a policeman coming!' and then I jumps up
in a minute, and ask, * Where ?'
"Then I go to his whip, and touch it
' Whafs this, Mr. Johnson ? ' * My whip, sir.'
* 111 tell you what it is, Mr. Johnson, 111 bet
you a bottle of blacking and a three-out brush,
that you can't say * my whip ' to three questions
that I shall put to you.' * I'll tike you, sir.'
I then take the whip from him, and sty,
* Pronding, sir, you was to meet a i)oor blind
old man, and you was to give him a ha'penny,
and you was to meet me and make me a
present of a ft/, note, what would you deserve ?'
He says, * My whip, sir.' * Yes, sir; that's one
to you. I say, sir, you've got a daughter, and
if she was to marry and get a great deal of
money, what would you deserve ?' * My wh^,
sir.' *• Certainly, sir; that's two to yoo. Kov,
sir, providing you was a top of that rope, md
I was to undo the rope and let yon down, mnI
I was to give you tlio cobbler's marbles with
the lien-flew-out-of-the-window, and tell you
that a policeman was a-coming, what should
I deserve ?' Then ho don't like to say, • My
whip,' and stammers out; at last he says it,
and then I beat him round the stage Ull he
nms off". Then I lay it down and cry cock-a-
doodle-do, crowing for victory, and he creeps
in and gets the whip again, and then lashes
me.
" After juggling and globes, we alwa^'S did
* a laughable sketch entitled Billy Button's
ride to Brentford,' and I used to be Jeremiah
Stitchem, a servont of Billy Button's, that
comes for a * sitiation.* It opens this way.
Jeremiali makes applications for this situa-
tion. He asks, * What can you do ? ' • E veiy-
think and nothink.' ' Can you clean plates?'
* I can break 'era.' * Can you run errands ?'
' All ways.' He is engaged at 4«. a- week and
his board ; and then comes some comic busi-
ness about a letter coming by post. Billy
tells him to bring him a light to read this
letter, and he sets fire to it. This letter is
from Brentford, saying that his sister's ill and
that he's wanted directl}'. He goes to a liveiy
stable and asks for a lady's pony, at the sama
time saying he wants it quiet The mtn
LOKDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
J33
la.Ts lie*8 got thxee : one that is blind, and
threw the last gentleman that rode it into a
ditch, and BiUy won't have that. The other
is lame of one leg, and. he don't Hke that, fur
he wants a lady's pony that is very quiet.
Then this stable-keeper recommends this
pony, saying it's vezy quiet, but it's a kicker.
Then fint he gets ap the wrong way, and the
Lead comes round to the t<iil of the horse ;
Jerxy ihen tells him he's wrong, and then offers
X/j give him a * bimg up,' and chucks him right
over the pony's back on to the grotmd on the
other side. Ue then gets on properly, ready
for starting, and tells Jerry he may expect
him home in a day or two. He tries to Ktai't
the pony, but it won't go. Jerry takes a
Dccdlti and pretends to stick it into tlie puny's
lUnk, which causes it to kick and rear until
he throws Billy Button oif ; and then the pony
chases Jerry round the stage with his mouth
open to bite him. Then there's a regular
confusion, and that winds it up.
•' If that pony catched you he'd give it you,
too. He caught hold of me one niglit by my
tT'^users, and nearly shook my life out of me.
It hurt me, but ever}'body roared and thought
it all right. Alter that I hit upon a dodge.
I used to have a roll of caUco tacked on to
mv back, and the pony would catch hold
ot it and pull out about four yards of what
IcH-ked hke a bhirt. Those ponies are very
playful, and may be taught anything.
" The stage-clown's dress is what" we term
ftill dresses, with a wig and a tail, but the
circus clown's is merely the top. knot, and
the ring dress, as if they are spangled they
are always on the twist, something in the
Myle of tlie serpent. They don't do tlie red
hulf-moon on the cheek, like stage clowns,
but tliey have just a dab, nmniug up to the
cheek-bone. A stage-clown's dress costs irom
frum bL to 10/. ; but a circus clown can make
i suit complete, with pumps and all, for from
3Us. to d3«. There's such a thing as fourteen
or fifteen yards of canvas in a stage-clown's
full dress ; and tliot's without exaggerating.
" Veal's was the best circus I wus at ; tlicre
tbevhadsix prads (horses) and two ponies,
and the performers were the best then of the
day; for they had Monsieur Ludowic, aFrench-
mun« and the best bare-bock juggler about.
Mr. Moffat's troupe, and JMr. Enier>''8, was
there also. Mr. Douglas wus clown along
^iiii me, and little Nod and Sam was the
tumblers. We hud a large tent and regular
ciruas, and could accommodate 1500 or IGOO
people. I had 35s. a-weok uU the time I was
there, (near 2\ years), and it wasn't much,
considering the work, for I had to produce
ftil the pantomimes and act as ballet-muster
*^ well.
" It is, and it ain't, difficult to ride roimd
s drous standing up. I've known one man,
vbo had never rode before in all his life,
and yet went on one night, when they were
short of hands, and done the Olympians to
the best of his abilities, without falling ofl^
though he felt very nervous. For these scenes
they go slowly. You have to keep your eye
fixed on the horse's head. I've been in a
circus so long, and yet I can't ride. Even
following the horse round the ring makes me
feel so giddy at times, that I have had to catch
hold of the tent-pole in the middle just to
steady myself.
*' I wasn't the regular principal clown at
Veal's — only on occasions ; I was the speak-
ing clown and jester. I used to do such things
as those : — Fc»r instance, there is a act — ^which
is rode — culled * Tlie Shipwrecked Sailors,'
where he rides roimd the ring, introducing the
shipwreck hornpipe, and doing a pantomime
of gi\'ing a imitation of the sinking of the
ship, and his swimming and returning safe on
shore. Between the parts I used to say to
the ring-master, • Are you aware, sir, that
I've been to sea ? ' He'd say, * No. sir.' Tlien
we'd go on : * Yes, sir ; I once took a voyage
to the Ickney Nockney Islands, off Bulbusen,
just by the Thames' Tunnel, in the mud.'
' Indeed, sir I' * Yes, sir ; and I've seen some
wonderful sights, sir, in my time.' * Indeed,
sir ! ' * Yes, sir : on this occasion it come so
cold, that as the captain was on the quarter-
deck, as he gave the word of command to the
men, the words dropped out of his mouth
lumps of ice on the deck. The ship would
have been lost, had I not had the presence of
mind to pick the words up, put them into
a fr>ingpan, and warm them over the galley-
lire : and us they thawed, so I gave the woixl
of command to the men.' *l)ear me, sir!
that was a wonderful sight!' 'It wus in-
deed, sir I ' * I don't believe a word of it.'
* Ah, sir, if you'd have been there, you'd have
seen it yourself.' * I don't beUeve a word
of it, Mr. Merryman.* * Oh ! come, sir, you
must beheve some.' * Well, I believe a part
it/ * Then I believe the other part, sir, and
so that makes tlie lot.' ' That's right, sir.*
' Well, su:, I went for another voyage ; and
going through the Needles our vessel sprung
a leak ; not an onion, a leak ; and she got a
hole in her side.' * She, sir ? * * Yes, sir,
the ship ; so the pumps was put to work ;
but as fust as they pumped the water out
it came in at the hole, and Uie ship was sink-
ing, when the captain come on deck and
asked if there was any man courageous enough
to stop the hole. Of course, sir, I was there.'
* But you're not courageous.' * Ain't I, sii*?
try me.' * Now, says lie, * if there's any man
\i-ill stop this hole, to him will I give the hand
of my daughter and 150/. So away I went
down in the hold, and there was more tliau
about 15 foot of water, and I p«)p8 my head i}\
the hole until they got tlie ves.s«.4 ashoi-e. So
you see, sir, I had the hand of his daughter
and the 150/.' * That was a good job for you,
Mr. Menyman.' • No, sir ; it was a bad job.'
* How was that, sir?' 'Because when I
was married I found that she was a cream
134
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
of Urtar.' ' Then, sir, you had the money ;
that was a good job for yoii.' * No, sir ;
that was a bad job, sir.' * How so ? ' 'I
bought some sheep and oxen, and they died
of the rot' ' Ah ! that was a bad job, Mr.
Meriyman.' ' Ko, sir ; it was a good*job ; for
shoes were veiy dear, and I sold the hides
for more than I gave for the cattle.' « Well,
that was a good job.' ' No, sir, that was a
bad job : for I built houses with the money
and they got burned down.' * Indeed, sir !
that was a very bad job for you.' * Oh no,
sir ; it was a very good job, because my wife
got burnt in them, and, you see, I got rid of
a tormenting wife.'
** Tlicre's another famous gag ring-jesters
alwa>-s do, and I was very successful with it.
After the act of horsemanship is over, when
the ring-master is about lea%ing the ring, I
say, * Allow me to go first, sir ; ' and he re-
plies, • No, sir, I never follow a fool.' Then
we go on : — * I always do,' meaning him.
* Wliat did you say, sir ? ' * That's quite
true, sir.* * I say, sir, did ever you see my
sweetheart?' * No, sir.' 'There she is, sir;
that nice young girl sitting there.' ' I don't
see her.' — *Yes, there, sir, a- winking at me
now. Ah ! you little duckscy, ducksey, duck-
eey ! * 'I don't see her, sir.' Then I gets him
to the middle of the ring, and whilst he is
pretending to stare in the direction I pointed
to, I bolt off, saying, * I never follows a fool.'
" At fairs we do pretty well, and a circus
always pays better than an acting-booth.
We are idwa}'s on salaries, and never go upon
shares. The actors often say we look down
upon them, and think them beneath our
notice; and I dare say it's true, to a great
extent. I've heard our chaps cxy out, * Won't
you bo glad when herrings are cheap?' or,
' How were you off for bits of candle and
lumps of coke last night at sharing?' Then,
no doubt, we live better at circuses, for we
do our steaks and onions, and all that sort
of thing ; and, i>erhaps, that makes us
cheeky.*
" Some jesters at circuses get tremendous
engagements. Mr. Barry, they say, had 10/.
a-week at Astlcy's; and Stonalfe, with his
dogs, is, I should think, equal to him. There's
another. Nelson, too, who plays on the bar-
monicon, and does tunes on bits of wood —
the same as went on the water in a tub drawn
by geese, when the bridge broke down at
Yarmouth — ^he's had as much as 15/. a-week
on a regular travelling engagement
" There ain't so many jesters as timibling
clowns. I think it's because they find it
almost too much for them ; for a jester has
to be ready with his tongue if anything goes
wrong in the ring. I shouldn't think there
was more than from thirty to forty jesters
in England. I reckon in this way. There
are finom ten to fifteen circuses, and that's
allowing them two jesters each. In the three-
penny circus, such as Clarke's or Fhizier's,
the salary for a jester is about 2/. »>week, take
the year round."
Silly Billt.
The character of "Silly Billy" is a kind
of clown, or rather a clown's butt; biit not
after the style of Pantaloon, for the port
is comparatively juvenile. Silly Billy is sup-
posed to be a schoolboy, although not dress* d
in a charity-boy's attire. He is verj' pq>u-
lar with the audience at the fairs; indeed,
they cannot do wthout him. ** The people
like to see Silly Billy," I was told, "much
more than they do Pantaloon, for he gets
knocked about more though, but he gives
it back again. A good Silly,*' said my in-
formant, **■ has to imitate all the ways of a
little boy. When I have been going to a fair,
I have many a time stopped for hours watch-
ing boys at play, learning their various games,
and getting their sayings. For instance, some
will go about the streets singing :
* Eh. hiffgcty, «h ho I
Billy lut the water Ko ! '
which is some song about a boy pulling a tap
fVom a water-butt, and letting the water ruu.
There's anotlier :
' Kicky nickey nito.
rUstrikeallght!'
I got these both from watching children whilst
pla}'ing. Again, boys will swear * By the liver
and lights of a cobbler's lapstone ! ' and their
most regular desperate oatli is,
• Ain't thin wot? ain't it dry ?
Cat my throat if I tells a he.'
They'll say, too * S'elp my greens ! * and * Upon
my word and say so ! ' AM these savings I
used to work up into my Silly Billy, and they
had their success.
** I do such things as these, too, which is
regularly boyish, such as * Give me a bit of
your bread and butter, and I'll give you a bit
of my bread and treacle.' Agaiu, I was
watching a lot of boys plnying at pitch-buttou,
and one says, * Ah, you're up to the rigs of
this hole ; come to my hole — ^you can't play
there!' I've noticed them, too, playing at
ring- taw, and one of their exclamations is
* Knuckle doiivn fodr, and no funking.' All
these sayings are very useflil to make the
character of Silly Billy perfect Bless you,
sir, I was two years studying boys before I
came out as Silly Billy. But then'l persevere
when I take a thing in hand ; and I stick so
close to nature, that I can't go far wrong in
that line. Now this is a regular boy's answer :
when somebody says ' Does your mother know
you're out?' he replies, ' Yes, she do; but I
didn't know the organ-man had lost his
monkey ! ' That always went immense.
'* It's impossible to say when Silly Billy first
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
135
come out at furs, or who first supported the
character. It's been popular ever since a fair
nn l>e remembered. The best I ever saw was
Teddy Waiters. He's been at all the fairs
roond the universe — England, Ireland, Scot-
Undf Wales, and France. Ho belonged to a
circas when he went abroad. He's done Silly
Billy these forty year, and he's a great comic
singer beside. I was reckoned very clever at
iL I used to look it by making up so young
for it. It tires you very much, for there's so
maeh exertion attached to it by the dancing
and cax)ering about. I've done it at t)ie fairs,
and also with tumblers in the street; only,
when you do it in the street, you don't do one-
half the business.
'^The make-up for a Silly Billy is this:
Short white trousers and shoes, with a strap
round the ankle, long white pinafore with a
frill round the neck, and red sleeves, and a
bojs cap. We dress the head with tlio hair
behind the ears, and a dab of red on the nose
and two patches of black over the eyebrows.
>Vhen I went to the fair I always took three
pairs of wliite trousers ^-ith me. The girls
usal to get up pla}'ing larks with me, and
smearing my white trousers with gingerbread.
It 3 a very favourite character with the women
—they stick pins into you, as if you were a
pin-cushion. I've had my thighs bleeding
sometimes. One time, during Greenwich, a
n;;ly old woman came on the parade and
lossed me, and made me a present of a silver
tiipence, which, I needn't say, was soon spent
in porter. Why, I've brought home with me
sometimes toys enough to last a child a fort-
night, if it was to break one every day, such as
carts and horses, cock and breeches, whistles,
M. You see. Silly Billy is supposed to be a
thiexish sort of a character, and I used to
take the toys away from the girls as they were
goin^ into the theatre, and then I'd show it to
the Clown and say, * Oh, look what that nice
lady's give me ! I shall take it home to my
mother.'
" I've done Silly Billy for Richardson's, and
near every booth of consequence. The general
»ages is from 5«. to 7«. 6rf. the day, but my
terms was always the three half-crowns. When
there's any fairs on, I can always get a job. I
always made it a rule never to go far away
from London, only to Greenwich or Gravesend,
hut not farther, for I can make it better in
town working the concert-rooms. There are
«ome who do nothing but Silly Billy ; and
then, if you take the year round, it comes to
three days' work a-week. The regular salary
doesn't come to more than a pound a-week,
^ut then you make something out of those
▼ho come' up on the parade, for one will
chuck you G<^., some \s, and 2«. 6</. We call
those parties *prosses.' I have had such a
^g as 55. give to me. We ore supposed to
share this among the company, and we gene-
rally do. These are the * nobbings,' and may
Bend tip your earnings to as much as 25«. a-
week, besides drink, which you can have more
given to you than you want,
" When we go about the streets with tum-
blers, we mostly only sing a song, and
dance, and keep the ring whilst the perform-
ance is going on. We also * nob,' or gather the
money. I never heard of a Silly Billy going
out busking in tap-rooms and that. The
tumblers like the Silly Billy, because the dress
is attractive ; but they are getting out of date
now, since the grotesque clown is so much in
the street. I went about vfith a school termed
* The Demons,' and very clever they was,
though they've all broke up now, and I don't
know what's become of them. There were
four of them. We did middling, but we could
always manage to knock up such a thing as
20s. each a-week. I was, on and off, about six
months with them. After their tumbling, then
my turn would begin. The drummer would
say : * Ttmi and turn about's fair play. Billy,
now it's your turn. A song from Billy ; and
if we meet ydth any encouragement, ladies
and gentlemen, the young man here will tie
his legs together and chuck several summer-
sets.' Then I'd sing such a song as * Clemen-
tina Clements,' which begins like this :
' You taUc of modest girls.
Now I've seen a few.
But there's noao licks the oue
I'm sticking up to.
But some of her fiiults
Would make some chaps ill ;
But, with all her faults,
Yes, I l«n'e her stUl.
Such a delicate duck was Clementina Clements ;
Such a delicate duck I never did see.*
** There's one verse where she won't walk
over a potato-field because they've got eyes,
and another when she faints at seeing a Dutch
doll without clothes on. Then she doesn't
like tables' legs, and all such as that, and that's
why she is * such a delicate duck.' That song
always tells with the women. Then I used to
sing another, called * What do men and wonien
marry for ? ' which was a very great favourite.
One verse that went very well was :
* If a good wife you've got,
(But there's very few of those.)
Your money goes just like a shot :
They're everlasting wanting clothes.
And when you've bought 'em all you can.
Of course you cannot buy them more ;
They cry. Do you call yourself a man ?
Was this what we got married for ? '
•'When I danced, it was merely a comio
dance — what we call a * roley poley.' Some-
times, when we had been walking far, and
pitching a good many times, the stones would
hurt my feet awful with dancing.
"Pitching with tumblers is nothing com-
pared to fair-parading. There you are the
principal of the comic men after Clown, for
he's first. We have regular scenes, which
take twenty minutes working through. When
the parade is slack, then comes the Silly Billy
business. There's a very celebrated sketch, or
180
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON FOOB.
•whatover you call it, which Gown and Silly
Billy do together, taking oiT mesmerism.
"Clown comes on, dressed up in a tall white
hat, and with a cloak on. He says that he has
just arrived from the island of Mititti, and
that he's the great Doctor Bokanld, the most
celehrated mesmeriser in the worid. He says,
*Look at me. Here I am. Aint I mes-
merised elephants ? Ain't I mesmerised mon-
keys ? and ain't I going to mesmerise him ? *
He then tells Silly Billy to sit in the chair.
Then he commences passing his hands across
his eyes. He asks Billy, * What do you see,
Billy ? ' He turns his face, with his sliut eyes,
towards the crowd, and says, * A man with a
hig nose, sir, and such a many pimples on his
face.' *And now what do you see, Billy?'
' Oh, ain't tliat gal a- winking at me ! Ton he
quiet, or I'll tell my mother.' * Now what do
you see, Billy ? ' * Nothink.* Then the doctor
turns to the crowd, and says, * Now, ladies and
gentlemen. I shall touch him on the fakement
at the hack of his head which is called a bump.
Oh, my eyes! ain't Billy's head a-swelling!
This bimip, ladies and gentlemen, is called a
organ — not a church nor yet a chapel organ,
nor yet one of tliem they grind in the street.
And here's another organ,' ho says, putting
his hand on Billy's stomach. * This here is
called liis nvitUing department organ, or where
he puts liis grub. I shall now touch liim on
another fakement, and make him sing.' Then
he puts liis finger on Bill^^'s head, and Billy
sings:
• As I one day won hawkinfr my ware,
I thouifht I'd invent something novel and rare :
For as I'm not fn^wn. And I know what's o'clock.
So 111 hove a go in at tlio pinenipplo rock.
Tol do ro lay, tol de ro lay.'
" Tlien Billy becomes quiet again, and Uie
doctor says, * 111 now, ladies and gentlemen,
touch him on another fakement, and cause
Bill>' to crj'. This liore is his organ of the
liondling department.' Then he takes Bflly's
tingiT fliid bites it, and Billy begins to ronr
liko a town bull. Then the doctor says, * I'll
now, ladies and gentlemen, touch him on ano-
ther fakement, when^by the youth can tell mo
what I've got in my hand.' He then puts his
hand in his coat-tail pocket, and says, * Billy,
what have I got in my hand ? ' and Billy says,
• Ah, you nasty beast I why it's a— it's a— it's a
— oh, I don't like to say ! * They do this a lot
of times, Billy always replying, * Oh, I don't
like to say I ' until at last he promises that, if
he won't tell his mother, he will ; and then he
says, * It's a small-tooth comb.' * Very right,
BiUy ; and what's in it? * * Why, one of them
•ere Uiings that crawls.' * Very right, Billy ;
and what is it?' ''Why, it's a — ^it's a black-
beetle.' * Very right, Billy ; look again. Do
3-ou see anything else? ' * There's some crumbs.'
Then lie tells Billy, that as he is such a good
boy he'll bring him to ; and Billy says, ' Oh,
don't, please, sir; one's quite enough.' Then
he brings him to, and Billy says, * Oh, ain't it
nice I Oh, it's so goDy ! Here, you young
woman, I wish you'd let me touch your
bumps.' Then, if the people laugh, he adds,
' You may laugh, hut it gives you a all-over
sort of a feeling, aa if yoa had drunk three
pints of pickling Tinegar/
" That's a very nyourite Mene ; but I
haven't give it yon all, for it would fill a
volume. It always makes a hit; and BiUy
has a rare chanee of working comio attitudet
and so on when the doctor touches his bomp^
^ There's another vexy celehrated scene iiar
Silly Billy. It's what we call the preachina
scene. Silly Billy mounts up a ladder, ani
Clown holds it at the bottom, and looks
through the steps. Clown has to do the derk
to Billy's parson. Billy begins by telling the
clerk that he mnst say ' Barley sugar' at the
end of every sentence he preaches. Billy be-
gins in this way : — '' Keyind brethren, and yoa
fair damsels,' and he's supposed to be address*
ing the chaps and gals on the parade, * I hope
that the text I shall give yon will be a monl
to you, and prevent you from eating the foii-
bidden sweets of — ' * Barley sugar I' *No^
you fool — sin! and that wiU put you in the
right path as you walk through the fields
of — ' 'Barley sugar!' *No; virtue, you
fool ! My text is taken from the epistle of
Thomas to the Etliiopians, the first chapter,
and two first slices off a leg of mutton, where
it saj-R so beautifully — ' ' Barley sugar ! ' * No^
no ; that's not it ! Now it come to go along in
the first year in the first month, two days he-
fore that, as we was journeying tlirough the
land of—' « Barley sugar ! ' • No, no, you
fool ! keep quiet Flowerpotamia, we met a
serpent, and from his mouth was issuing—'
* Barley sugar ! ' * No, no ! fire.' Then all
the people on the parade jump np and shoot,
* Where ? ' Then Billy says, • Oh, my sistef^s
tom-cat, here's a congregation! Sit down.'
^Vhen they are all quiet again, Billy goes on :
* Now this I say unto you — * * Barley sugar !*
* Keep quiet, "n-ill you ! ' and he hit« Clown with
his foot. * Two shall l>e well and two shall be
queer. Oh, ain't I ill I Go, men of little un.
dcrstanding, and inherit a basin of pea-soup at
the cook-shop, together frith—' 'Barley
sugar!' *No such thing! — my blessing.
Unto you will I give nothing, and unto you
just h alf as much — ' * Barley sugar I ' * Hold
your tongue! You that have had nothing
shall give it back again, and you that had
notliing at all, you shall keep it Now let
us sing — ' * Barley sugar ! ' * No ; a song.'
Then Billy tells them to get their books, and
they take up pint pots, or whatever they can
get < Let us sing, 'and they fdl jump up, and
they all begin:
' If I was a dmyman'a bono
One quarter of the year,
I'd put my tail where my head ought to be,
And I'd drink np all the—'
'Bariey sugar!' — ' Hold your tongue!— beer.'
ZOXDOX LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
I.i7
After ftll of them hare sang, Billj saj-s. • Now
Id vs SET/ and all of them howl, < Aye, aje.'
* Vow is fha wintflr of onr duDontent—
We have not CDOugrb mooey to pAjr our rait ;
ind by mil tbe clouda that tip our hooMv
VeVo uoC euoc^h lood tolDod a '
•Biriey sagorl' 'Yes, barley sugar/ says
My. Then aU tlie congregation cries — ''O
— 0— o — o;* and Clown sa,\'8, *Bar — bar —
bn^-liariey sogar/ and he is so much atfected
be weeps and goes to wipe his eyes, and lets the
liUer fall, and down comes Billy. He gives
imdiy kicks, and then pretends to be dying.
nie congregation say, 'Peace be with you,
BQ^T/ and he answers, * Yes, pcas-pudiling
ud fined taters ;* and the Clown howls out,
'Baiiey sugar 2* When Billy is dead, if busi-
aess isn't very good, they put the body on
the ladder, and form a procession. The music
goes at the head and plays a hornpipe, slowly,
lad then they leave the booth, and parade
Ifanm^h the fair among the people, with Clown
M ebef mourner. The people are bursting
tkdr sides, and wherever we go they follow
■ftff. All the mourners keep cning, * Oh, oh,
oh,BiU>-'e deadr and then Billy turns round,
■od sometime*) says, * Don't bo fools ! it's only
lUik:* or else, * Don't tell mother; she'll
give me a hiding.' This i)rocession business
ttvs^TS brings a dork behind us, and tills the
theatre, or gues a great way towards it. AMien
1 have been Silly Billy, and representing this
leene, and been carried through the fair, I've
been black and blue from the girls coming up
and pinching me through the ladder. The
gicis are wonderfully cheeky at fairs, and all
iat a laik. They used to get me so precious
vid, I couldn't help coming to life, and say,
'(l^et* you hussies ! ' But it were no good, for
tliqf'd follow you iJl about, and keep on uip-
|Ng a fellow.
"Another celebrated scene or sketch is the
tflSloUl one, and a rich one it is. Billy is
nqiposed to have joined the temperance par-
lies He calls fur a tub to preach upon, and
he lays he will consider it a favour if they
6oaldlet.it he a water-butL They lift Billy
«n to the tub, and a cove — Clown generally —
BIS under to take the choir of the meeting.
: Then the poraders stand about, and I begin :
* Ladies and gentlemen, waking fricn<ls, and
lazy eoeniiea, and Mr. Chairman, what I'm
about to tell you I'm a stanch teetotider.'
* Hear, hear, hear,' everybody cries. * I have
been so for now two — ' and the Clown sug-
gests • Years.' * No, minutes. I'd have you
> avoid water as you would avoid u bull that
WMn't iu a choney-shop.' * Hear, hear, hear.'
* I once kuew a friend of mine who dnmk water
I till be was one solid mass of ice ; aod he drunk
t<^ii till the leaves grew out of his nose.' * Oh,
I oh, hear, hear.' ' He got so fut, you couldn't
I ^ him. This, my friends, comes of tcu-
dzuking I ' * Hear, hear, hear.' * I hope, kind
incDds, this will be a lesson to you to ayoid
drinking too much' — Tlien the chairman
jumps up and says, * Beer I ' * No, no ; tea.
Drink in moderation, and never drink more
than I do. Two pots of ale, three pints of
porter, four glasses of gin, five of mm, and six
of brandy, is enough for any man at one time.
Don't drink more, please.' * Hear, hear, hear.*
* That will cause you to be in the heiglit of
bloom. Your nose will bhissom; your eyes
will be bright as two burnt holes in a blanket ;
your head ^^-ill swell till no hat will fit it.
These are facts, my friends : undeniable facts,
my kind friends.' * Ii«Mir, hear, hear.' * You
will get so fat, youll tske np the puvemont to
walk. I believe, and I trust, that what I have
said \**ill not conxince you that teetotolism
and cuifeetotalism are the best things ever
invented. Sign the pledge. The pledge-book
is here. You must all jwiy a pemiy; and if
you dont keep up your pu\-ments, you will be
scratched. With these few remarks I now
conclutle my address to you, hoping that every
friend imioug you is so benevolent as to sub-
scribe a pot (if beer. I shall be hajipy to drink
it, to show you how awful a thing it is not to
become a teetotaller.' Then they all rush
f«^n^•a^d to sign the plodife, and they knock
Clown over, and lie tumbU^s Silly Billy into
the barrel up to his neck. Then we all sing
* I Hk«s a dn»p of (foo.l l)oer,
I likca a dn-p of p.KHi bwir ;
And hau^ thoir cyca If over th*>y tries
To rub a pour man of hia btior.'
And that ends the meeting.
" I was in Greenwich fair, doing Silly Billy,
when the c<4ebrated disturbimce with the
Holdiers to<^»k place. I was at Smith and Web-
ster's booth (Uichnrdsdn's that was), and OUT
clown was l*aul Petro. He hail been a bit of
a fighting man. lie was binding down fi>r
Silly Billy to toko a jump over him, and soma
of- the soldiers ran up ami took the back.
They knocked his bock as they went over, and
he got shirtey. Then canio a row. Foiu: of
them pitched into Paul, and he cries out for
help. The mob be;,'an to pelt the soldiers, and
they called out to their comrades to assist
them. A regular confusion ensued. The
soldiers timibled us about, and took off their
belts. They cut Paul's forehead right open.
I was Silly Billy, ond I got a broomstick, and
when one of the 8oldi<?rs prave mc a lick over the
face with his belt, I pitclied him over on the
mob with my broomstick. I was tumbled
down the steps among the mob, and hang mo
if they didn't pitch into mo tool I got tho
awfullest nose you ever see. U'here was I, in
my long pinafore, a- wiping up the blood, and
both my eyes going as black as plums. I cut
up a side place, and then I sat down to tiy
and put my nose to rights. L<^rd, how I did
look about for plaster ! "NVlien I came back
there was all the fair a fighting. The fighting-
men came out of their bootlis and let into tlio
soldiers, who was going about flourishing their
138
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
belts and hittiDg eveiybody. At last the
police came ; two of them ivas knocked down,
und sent back on stretchers : but at last, when
u picket was sent for, all the soldiers — there
was about forty of them — were walked oflf.
They got from six to nine months' impri^^on-
mont; and those that let into tho police,
eighteen iiiontlis. I never sec such a sight.
It was all up with poor Silly Hilly for that fair,
for I had to wrap my face up in plaster and
ilannel, and keep it ko for a week.
" I shouldn't think there were more than a
dozen Silly Billys going about at tlie present
time ; jmd out of them there ain't above throe
lirst-raters. 1 know neiurly all of thein. When
fairs ain't on they go about the streets, either
with schools of tumblers or serenaders; or
else tlicy turn to singing at the concerts. To
be a good Silly Billy, it requires a man vi\\\\
heaps of funniment and plouty of talk. He
must also huvo a young-looking face, and tlie
taller tin.' man the better for it. When I go
out I always do my own gug, and I try to
knock out something new. I can take a candle,
or a straw, or a piece of gingerbread, or any
mortal thing, and lecture on it. At fairs we
make our talk rather broad, to suit the au-
dience.
"Our best sport is where a giil comes up
on tlie parade, and stands there before going
inside — we havo immense fun witli her. I
oiler to marry her, and so does Clown, and we
quarrel as to who proposed to the young
woman first. I swear she's my gal, and he
does the same. Then we appeal to her, and
tell her what we'll give her as presents. It
makes immense fun. The girls always take
it in good p.'trt, and seem to e^joy it as much
as the mob in front. If we see that she is in
any ways shy we drop it, for it's done for mer-
riment, and not to insult ; and we always strive
to amuse and not to abuse our friends."
Billy Baillow.
** Billy Barlow," is another supposed comic
character, that usually accompanies either tho
street-dancers or acrobats in their peregrina-
tions. The dress consists of a cocked-hat and
red feather, a soldier's coat (generally a ser-
geant's with sash), whit^ trowsers with the legs
tucked into Wellington boots, a large tin eye-
glass, and an old broken and ragged umbrella.
The nose and cheeks are coloured bright red
with vermilion. The " comic business" con-
sists of the songs of the ^* Merry Month of
May," and "Billy Barlow," together with a
few old conundrums and jokes, and sometimes
(where the halfpence are very plentiful) a
" comic " dance. The following statement con-
cerning this peculiar means of obtaining a
living I had from a man whom I had seen
performing in the streets, dressed up for the
part, but who came to me so thoroughly altered
in appearance that 1 could hardly recognise
him. In plain clothes he had almost a re-
spectable appearance, and was remarkably
clean and neat in his attire. Altogether, in
his undress, he might have been mistaken for
a better Idnd of mechanic. There was a
humorous expression, however, about his
month, and a tendency to grimace, that toM
the professional buffoon. **! go about now
as Billy Barlow,** he said ; " the character of
Billy Barlow was originally played at the noes
by a man who is dead. He was about ten
years at the street business, doing nothing else
than Billy Barlow in the public thoroughfares,
and at fairs and races. He might have mads
a fortuue had he took care on it, sir; but hs
was a great drunkmrd, and spent all he got in
gin. He died seven years ago — ^where most
of the street-performers ends their daj-s — in
the workhouse. He was formerly a potmin
at some public-house, and got discharged, and
then took to singing comic songs about the
streets and fairs. Tho song of * Billy Barlow'
(which was very popular then) was among
the lot that he sung, and that gave his name.
He used to sing, too, the song of * I hope I
don't intrude ; ' and for that he dressed up as
Paul Pit, which is the reason of the old nzn-
brella, the eye-glass, and the white trowsets
tucked into the boots, being part of the cos-
tume at present Another of his songs was
tlie * Merry Month of May,* or * Follow the
Drum ; ' and for that he put on the soldier^
coat and cocked-hat and feather, which we
wears to this day. After this he was called
* General Barlow.' "When he died, one or two
took to the same kerachtcr, and they died in
the workhouse, like us aU. Two months ago
I thought I'd take to it myself, as there was a
vacancy in the purfession. I have been for
thirty years at the street business, off and on.
I am fifty now. I was a mufiin and bisenit-
baker by trade ; but, like the rest on us, I got
fond of a roving life. My father was a taflar
by traile, but took to being a supemumeniy
at Covent Garden Theaytor, where my uncle
was a performer, and when I was nine jean
old I playcnl tlie part of the child in *■ Hzairoi'
and after that I was one of the devils whil
danced romid my uncle in * Mother Gooee.^
When I was fourteen year old my uncle ap-
prenticed me to the muffin business, and I
stuck to it for five years ; but when I was out
of my time I made up my mind to cut it, and
take to performing. First I played clown at a
booth, for I had always a taste for the comio
after I had played the de\-il, and danced round
my uncle in the Covent-garden pantomime.
Some time after that I took to play the drum
and pipes ; and since then I have been chiefly
performing as musicianer to different street
exhibitions. When business is bad in the
winter or wet weather, I make sweetmeats,
and go about the streets and sell them. I
never made muffins since I left the business ;
you see, I've no stove nor shop for that, and
never had the means of raising them. Sweet-
meats takes little capital — tofiy, brandy-ballSy
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
130
md Albert rock isn*t ezpensiTe to get up. Be-
lideft, I'm known well among the children in
the streets, and they likes to patronise the
pmfession for sweetmeats, even though they
vont giye nothing while you're a performing ;
I\q done much the same since I took to the
KUy Barlow, as I did before at the street
business. We all share alike, and that's what
I did as the drum and pipes. I never dress
It home. My wife (I'm a married man) knows
the part I play. She came to see me once,
md langhed at me fit to bust. The landlord
Mr the fellow-lodgers where I live — I have ft
iwunto myself — ain't awaro of what I do; I
ineiks my things out, and dresses at a public -
house. It costs us a pot for dressing and a
pot for ondressing. We has the use of the
tip-room for that. I'm like the rest of the
vorid at home — or rather more serious,
maybe, — though, thank God, I don't want for
food; things is cheap enough now; and if I
can't get a living at the buffooner}' business,
I vby I tries sweetmeats, and between the two
I do manage to grab on somehow, and that's
I aore than many of my purfession can do.
I My pardner (a street-dancer whom he brought
vith him) must either dance orstar\'e; and
I there's plenty like him in the streets of Lon-
don. I only know of one other Barlow but me
in the business, and he's only taken to it oiler
Bie. Some jokes ain't fit for ladies to listen to,
bat wot I says is the best-approved jokes — such
as has been fashionable for many years, und
can't give no offence to no one. I say to the
moiuciso, * Well, master, can you tell me why
STB Che Thames Tunnel and Hungcrford Sus-
pension Bridge like two joints badly done ? '
ball say, ' No, Mr. Barlow ;' and then I give
him the answer : ' Because one is over-done,
nd the other is under-done.' Then I raise
a^wnbrella, saying, ^I think I'm pumided
uninst the weather ; ' and as the umbrella is
dtom and slit, it raises a laugh. Some days
I get six shillings or seven shillings as my
ihtze ; sometimes not a quarter of the money.
fohaps I may average full eighteen shillings
a-veek in the summer, or more; but not a
poDnd. In the winter, if there's a subsistence,
that's all. Joking is not natural to me, and
I'm a steady man; it's only in the way of
bmtinefiB, and I leave it on one side when I've
gotmy private apparel on. I never tliink of my
public character if I can help it, until I get
ay show-dress on, and I'm glad to get it oti'
tt night ; and then I think of my liome and
cfaiUiien, and I struggle hard for them, and
ieel disgust oft enough at having been a tom-
fool to street fools."
Stbollino AcTons.
'VTbat are called strolling actors are those who
go about the country and play at the various
fkin and towns. As long as they are acting
in a booth they are called canvas actors ; but
iopposing they stop in a town a few days
after a fair, or build up in a town where there
is no fair, that constitutes what is tenued
private business.
" We call strolling acting * mumming,* and
the actors * mummers.' All spouting is mum-
ming. A strolling acU^r is supposed to know
something of everything. He doesn't always
get a part given to him to leara, but he's
more often told what character he's to take,
and what he's to do, and he's supposed to be
able to find words capable of illustrating the
character ; in fact, he has to * gag,' that is,
make up words.
** When old Richardson was alive, lie used
to make the actors study their parts regularly;
and there's Tliome and Bennett's, and Dou-
glas's, and other large travelling concerns,
that do so at the present time ; but where
there's one that does, there's ten that don't
I was never in one that did, not to study the
parts, and I have been mumming, on and off,
these ten years.
"There's very few penny gaff^ in London
where they speak; in fact, I only know ono
where they do. It ain't allowed by law, and
the police are uncommon sewere. They gener-
ally play ballets and dumb acting, singing
and dancing, and such-like.
*' I never heard of such a thing as a canvas
theatre being prosecuted for having speaking
plays perfonned, so long as a fair is going on,
but if it builds at other times I have known
the mayor to object to it, ond order the com-
pany away. Wlien we go to pitch in a town,
we always, if it's a quiet one, ask permission
of the mayor to let us build.
" The mummers have got a slang of their
own, which pailies connected with the perfes-
sion generally use. It is called * mummers'
slang,' and I have been told that its a com-
pound of broken Italian and French. Some
of the Romance is also mixed up with it.
This, for instance, is the slang for • Give me a
glass of beer,' — *Your nabs 8i)arkle my nabs,'
' a drop of beware.' * I have got no money '
is, * My nabs has nanti dinali.' I'll give you a
few sentences.
" * Pami ' is rain ; and * toba ' is ground.
" * Nonti numgare ' is — No food.
" ' Nanti fogare' is — No tobacco.
" * Is his nabs a bona press?' — Is he good for
something to drink ?
" ' Nanti, his nabs is a ketcva homer ' — No,
he's a bad sort.
'* ' The casa will parker our nabs multi '
means. — This house will tumble down.
'* Vada the glaze' is — Look at the window.
" These arc nearly all the mummers' slang
words we use; but they apply to different
meanings. We call breaktast, dinner, tea,
supper, all of them * numgaro ;' and all beer,
brandy, water, or soup, are * beware.' We call
everjbody *his nabs,' or Mier nabs.' I went
among the penny-ice men, who are Italian
chaps, and I found that they were spealdng a
lot of mummers' slang. It is a good deal
IM
LOSDON LABOUR JND THE LONDON POOR.
Italian. We think it must have originated
from Italians who went about doing panto-
mimes.
" Now, the way we count money is neaily all
of it Italian; from one farthing up to a
shilling is this :—
^ ' Patina, nadsa, oni soldi, dney soldi, tray
soldi, quatro soldi, chinqui soldi, say soldi,
seter soldi, otter soldi, novra soldi, deshra
soldi, lettra soldi, and a biouk.' A half-crown
is a * metsa carroon ;' a * carroon ' is a crown ;
<met5apunta' is half-a-sovereign ; a *pimta'
is a pound. Even with these few words, by
mixing them up witli a few EngUsh ones, we
can talk away as fast as if we was using our
own language.
" Mumming at fairs is harder than private
business, because you have to perform so
many times. You only wear one dress, and
all the actor is expected to do is to stand up
to the dances outside and act in. Hell have
to dance perhaps sixteen quadrilles in the
course of the day, and act about as often
inside. The company generally work in
shares, or if they pay by the day, it's about
four or five shillings a-day. When you go to
get engaged, the firat question is, < What can
you do ?' and the next, * Do you find your own
properties, such as russet boots, your dress,
nat and feathers, Sec V Of course they like
vour dress tlic better if it's a showy one ; and
It don't much matter about its corresponding
with the piece. For instance, Henry the
Second, in ' Fair Bosamond,' always comes on
with a cavalier's dress, and nobody notices
the difference of costume. In fact, the same
dresses are used over and over again for the
same pieces. The general dress for the lathes
is a velvet skirt with a satin stomacher, with a
gold band round tlie waist and a pearl band
on the forehead. They, too, wear tlie same
dresses for all the pieces. A regular fair show
has only a small compass of dresses, for they
only goes to the same places once in a year,
and of course their costumes ain't remem-
bered.
*' The principal fair pieces are * Blue Beard,'
* Robert, duke of Normandy,' and * Fiir Bosa-
mond, or the Bowers of Woodstock.* I recol-
lect once they played * Maria Maitin,' at a
fair, in a company I was with, and we ])layed
that in cavalior costume ; and so we did * I'he
Murder at Slautield Hall,' Bush's attair, in
dresses of the time of Charles the Second.
** An BMJtors share •will average for a fair at
five shillings a-day, if the fair is auythiuj? at
all. When we don't work we don't pot pai«l,
so that if we only do one fair a-weck, tliats
fifteen shillings, unless we stop to do a day
or two private business after the fair.
" * Fair Bosamond ' isn't so good a piece as
* Blue Beard,' for that's a great fair piece, and
a never-faihng draw. Five years ago I was
with a company — Star and Lewis were the
acting managei's. Then *Blue Beard' was
our favourite piece, and we played it five fairs
out of six. * Fair Bosamond ' is too sent
tal. They like a comedy man, and tli
in ' Fair Bosamond' isnt nothing. The
the secret- chamber scene in * Blue Beard
generally done by the scene rolMng n]
discovering another, with skeletons paint
the back, and blue fire. We always c
that scene with us wherever we went, ai
the other pieces the same scenes did
Star's, our scenes were somewhat abm
feet wide and eight feet high. They all
up, and there were generally about ft
working order, with the drop curtain,
made five.
•'You may put the price of a goo<
theatrical booth down at from fifty pom
two hundred and fifty pounds. There's
of them more expensive still. For ins^
the paintings alone on the fk>nt of Doc
Shakesperian theatre, must have cost sc
pounds ; and his dress must have cost i
for he's got a private theatre at Boltoc
he works them there as well as at fairs.
" The * Bottle Imp ' is a very eflfbctiT
piece. It opens with a scene of Venic«
Willebald and Albert, which is the ec
man and the juvenile. The comic
principal lino is, * I'll tell your mother,'
time Albert wants to go and see his i
heart, or if he's doing anything that he 1
improper. In the first act Albert goes 1
sweetheart's house, and the father conse
their imion, pro^-ided he can gain so
ducats. Albert then finds out a strangei
is Nicolo, who asks him to gamble with 1
dice : Albert says he is poor. Nicolo si
once was poor, but now he has ijreat w
He then tells Albert, that if he likes he (
rich too. He says, *Have you ni»t hef
imps and bottle imps T * Stuff!' says A
* me, indeed ! a poor artist ; I have* hea
such things, but I heed them not.*
boy,' sa}-s Nicolo, * I have that in my possi
will moke you rich indeed; a drop o
elixir in this bottle, rubbed on the ob
will give you all you require ; and if ere
wish to part with it, you must sell it fb:
tlian you gave.' He gives three ducats
and as he gives the money the demon li
from the side, *Ha! ha! ha! mine, n:
Albert looks amazed. Nicolo says,
youth ! may you know more happiness t
have whilst I had that in my possession :
then ho goes off. ^Vlbert then tries the ]
of the bottle. He says, *What, ho! I
for wine,' and it's shoved on from the
As he is drinking, Willebald exclaims
dear, O dear ! I've been looking for my m
O that I were only safe back again in Tl
neetUe-stroet ! Ill never go hunting ]
girls again. Oh, won't I tell his mo
' How now, caitiff! — Leave me I' says k
' All right,' says Willebald ; * Til leave ;
won't I tell your mother !'
** When Willebald goes, Albert wish<
sleep, and the Bottle Imp replie<^ ' All
LONDON LABOUR AKD THE LONDON POOR.
lU
Irishes shall he gratified, excepting one. Sleep
jou cairaot have while I ani in yonr posses-
non.' The demon then seizes him by the
throat, and Albert falls on Htage, demon
exulling over him. Enter Willebald, who,
teeing the demon, crie», ' Harder ! nuirder !
Oh, won't I tell their mothers !' and that ends
the first act.
••In the second and lost act, Albert gives
TTiUehald instmctinns to sell the bottle ; * but
it is to be for less than tbree dnoats.' Wille-
bald says, * No mariue-storekecpcr woidd 1
give three ducats for an old bottle ;' but lie |
goes off shontinpr, out * Who'll buy a bottle ? j
Wholl buy a Ixittle?* In thrt next scene,
Willebald is still shouting his bottle for sole,
witlk folks laughing? oft' sin.qe and clogs b.-u-k-
iBg. He says, * Ab ! laugh nwny. Its wrll to
be merrj', but Fm obliged to cry — Who'll buy
a bottle?* He thcrn snys he's 'not goiii^'
wilking abont all day selling a bottle ;' and
then he says he's got two ducats, and hfj'll
buy tlie bottle himself, sooner ibnn tnidge
ikiot Venice. Then he sny.s, * Ob, 'Mr. Bottle.
heK are the dncats : now you are mine.* Tben
the demon cries, 'IMinr*, mine!' lie snys it
WiB only the wind. Then he snys, * Oh, bow I
iriih I was at home la^xm, and ht.-iird my little
brothera and sisters bin^nrig !' And instantly
from the sides you liear. • Hoys and girls come
on to play !' Then Willfbfdd snys, • I wish
you'd hold yonr tongue, you littlo brutes !' and
they oeaae. Next he complains that he's so
poor, and he wishes it would rain gold on him,
md then down comes a shower. Tben in
eomea Albert, who usks whether the bottle
haa been sold : and Willebald replies that
it's an right. * Thank benvons.' crios Albert ;
* bat yet I pity the misoruble wretch who bos
bought it.' • What do you mean ? O deiir,
Odear! to frighten ono so! Ill t«.»ll your
Bother!* * Know ye not, caitilF! ' continues
Albert, ' that tliat bottle contains a demon ?
0 what a weipht hast thou removed from my
heart!' As Willebald is deploring his lot,
€Mer a poor man. who asks for a drink of
ynu^r ; and Willebald tells him lie can't give
bim any water, but he has an elixir he hIhiII
biTc very cheap. The old man replies tliat
be hasn't got more than a petnni, which is the
sitietb part of a farthing. However, WiUe-
Wd sells liim the bottle ; and as it's the
•mallest coin in the worbl, and the bottle
cm't go no cheaper, the demon rushes in and
•axes the beggar, who turns out to be Nicolo,
^ ftrst who sold the bottle. As he is being
cvritMl off, Willebald cries out, * For shame,
yon agly devil ! to treat the old gentleman like
tbit • Wont I tell your mother I' and down
ctmes the cnrtain.
**The * Bottle Imp' is a very succcssfiU
romantic drama. There's plenty of blue fire
in it. The 'Bottle Imp' have it at every
cotnnce that fellow do. There is some booths
that are fonder of the * Bottle Imp' than any
odwr piece. We played it at Bill Weale'a
No. LXIII.
theatre more than any other drama. The
imp is always acted by a man in a cloak with
a mask on. Yon can see his cavalier boots
under his cloak, but that dont matter to
holiday folk when once they know it's intended
to be a demon.
"It's a voiy jolly life strolling, and I
wouldn't leave it for any other if I had my
choice. At times it's hord lines ; but for my
part I prefer it tn any other. It's about tilteen
shillings a-week for certain. If you can make
up your mind to sleep in the booth, it aint
such bad poy. But the most of the men go to I
lodgings, and they don't foi-get to boast of it. \
'Where do you lodge?' one 11 ask. * Oh, I j
lodged at such a place,' says another; for
we're all tirst-rate fellows, if you can got any-
body to believe us.
"Mummers' feed is a herring, which we
call a pheasant. After performance we gene-
rally disperse, and those who have lotlginga
go to 'em ; but if any sb»cp in the booth, turn
in. I'erhnps there's a batch of coftee brmight
forwards, a sul^scription supper of three. I'he
coffee and sugar is put in a kettle and boiled
up, and then served up in what we can get :
either a saucepan lid, or a cocoa-nut shell, or
a publican's jjot, or whatever they can get.
Mummers is the pooi-est, llashest, and most
independent race of men going. If y(»u was
to offer some of them a shilling tliey'd refuse
it, though the most of them would take iL
Tlio generality of them is cobblers' lads, and
tailors' apprentices, and clerks, and they do
accoimt for that by tlieir having so much time
to study over tlieir work.
" Private business is a better sort of acting.
There we do nearly tlie entire piece, with only
the diflicult parts cut out. We only (li> the
outline of the story, and gag it up. We've
done various plays of Shakspeare in this w.i}-,
such as ^Ilamlct' or ' Othello,' but only on
benefit occasions. Then we go as near as
memory will let us, but we must never ajipear
to be stuck for words. Our prices of admis-
sion in the country for private business is
threepence and sixpence, or sometimes six-
pence or one shilling, for it all depends upon
the town, but hi l.ondon it's oftener one
p«.nny and twopence. We only go to the out-
skirts and act there, for they won't allow us in
the str<fets. The principal parts for pitching
the booth for private business in I/mdon, is
about LoclwS-fields, Walworth. We opened
there about six years ago last Easter.
'* Onr rehearsals for a ])iece are the funniest
things in tho worliU Perhaps we are going
to play * The Floating Beacon, or The Weird
Woman of the Wreck.' The manager will,
when the night's perfonnan re is over, call the
company together, and he'll say to the low-
comedyman, * Now, you play Jock Jimk, and
this is your part: you're supposed to fetch
Frederick for to go to sea. Frederick geU
capsized in the boat, and gets aboard of the
fiooting beaoun. Yon go to search for him.
Vw
142
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
and the smnggleiB tell yon he's not aboard,
and they give yon the lie; then you say,
< What, the lie to a English sailor ! ' and you
chuck your quid in his eye, saying, * Tve had
it for the last fourteen days, and now I scud it
with a ftill sail into your lubberly eye/ Then
you have to get Frederick ofL*
"• Then the manager will turn to the juve-
nile, and say, * Now, sir, you'll play Frederick.
Now then, Frederick, you're in love with a giil,
and old Winslade, the father, is very fond of
you. Tou get into the boat to go to the ship,
and you're wrecked and get on to the beacon.
You're very faint, and stagger on, and do a
back fall. You're picked up by the weird wo-
man, and have some dialogue with her; and
then you have some dialogue with the two
smugglers, Ormaloff and Augerstoff. You
pretend to sleep, and they're going to stab you,
when the wild woman screams, and you awake
and have some more dialogue. Then they
bring a bottle, and you begin drinking. You
change the cups. Then there's more dialogue,
and you tackle Ormaloff. Then you discover
your mother and embrace. Jack Junk saves
you. Form a picture with your mother, the
girl, and old Winslade, and Jack Junk over
you.*
** That's his part, and he's got to put it to-
gether and do the talk.
^ Then the manager turns to Ormaloff and
Augerstofi^ and says : * Now, you two play the
smugglers, do you hear? You're to try and
poison the young fellow, and you're defeated.'
** Then he say to the wild woman : ' You're
kept as a prisoner aboard the beacon, where
your husband has been murdered. You have
refused to become the wife of Ormaloff Your
child has been thrown overboard. You dis-
cover him in Frederick, and you scream when
they are about to stab him, and also when he's
about to drink. Make as much of it as you
can, please ; and dont forget the scream.'
** * Winslade, you know your part. You've
only got to follow Junk.'
**' You're to play the lady, you Miss.
You're in love with Frederick. You know the
old business: *What! to part thus? Alas!
alas ! never to this moment have I confessed
I love you ! ' '
^ That's a true picture of a mimiming re-
hearsal, whether it's fair or private business.
Some of the young chaps stick in their parts.
They get the stage-fever and knocking in the
knees. We've had to shove them on to the
scene. They keep on asking what they're to
say. <0h, say anything!' we tell 'em, and
push 'em on to the stage.
** If a man's not gifted with the gab, he's
no good at a booth. I've been with a chap
acting * Mazy Woodbine,' and he hasn't known
a word of his part Then, when he's stuck,
he has seized me by the throat, and said,
* Caitiff! dog ! be sure thou provest my wife
unfaithful to me.' Then I saw his dodge, and
I said, ' Oh, my lord ! ' and he continued —
* Give me the proof, or thou hadst best been
bom a dog.' Then I answered, *My lord,
you wrong your wife, and torture me ; ' and he
said, * Forward, then, liar ! dog!' and we both
rushed off.
" We were acting at Lock's-fields, Walworth,
once, doing private business, when we got
into trouble, and were all put into prison foe
playing without a license. We had built up
in a piece of private ground — in a dust-yard
known as Calf's — and we had been thers
eleven months doing exceedingly weU. We
treated the policeman eveiy'night, and gave
him as much, with porter and money, that was
equal to one shilling a-night, which was taken
up from the company. It was something like
a penny Srpiece for the policeman, for we
were rather afraid of something of the kind
happening.
" It was about the time that * Oliver Twist'
was making such a success at the oAer
theatres, and so we did a robbery from it, and
brought out our version as * The Golden Far-
mer.' Instead of having an artfiU dodge, we
called our oomio character Jimmy Twitdier,
and made him do all the artful-dodgery bua-
ness. We had three performanoes a-nigh( ia
those days. We was in our second perfoim*
ance, and Jimmy Twitcher was in Uie act of
getting through the window, and Hanuner,
the auctioneer, was asleep, saying in his sleep,
* Knock 'em down ! gom^ ! going ! gone ! *
when I saw the police in pnvate clothes rising
from the front seats, and coming towards tht
stage. They opened the side door, and let
the other police in, about forty of them. Theni
the inspector said, ' Ladies and gentlemen, I
forbid any of you to move, as I arrest thon
people for performing without a Ucense.* No-
body moved. Three police took hold of me,
one at each arm, and one at the back of the
neck. They wouldn't allow us to change onr
dresses, nor to take our other clothes, though
they were close by. They marched us off to
the Walworth station, along with about a
hundred of the spectators, for some of them
got away. My wife went to fetch my dothet
for me, and they took her, too, and actoaUy
locked her up all night, though she was to
near her pregnancy that the doctor orderad
her pillows to sleep on. In the morning thej
took us all before the magistrate. The au-
dience were fined one shilling a-head, or-seven
days; but they paid the shilling. We wen
all ^ed twenty shillings, or fourteen daja.
Some paid, but I couldn't raise it, so I wis
walked oflL
** We were all in an awful fright when wo
found ourselves in the police-cell that night
Some said we should get six months, others
twelve, and all we could say was, * What on
earth will our o/d women do?'
*' We were all in our theatrical costumai*
I was Hammer, the auctioneer, dressed in ft
long white coat, with the swaUow-tailS toodh-
ing the ground, and blue bottoms. I had *
LOlfbON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR
143
long figtired chintz waistcoat, and a pair of
teb knee-breeches, grey stockings, and low
ikoes, and my hat was a white one with a low
cfown and broad brim, like a Quaker's. To
coaiplete it, I wore a fiill bnshy wig. As we
▼ere being walked off from Walworth to
K«mington-lane, to go before the magistrate,
the tops of the houses and the windows were
ftil of people, waiting to see us come along in
onr druses. They laughed more than pitied
-QB. The police got pelted, and I caught a
«vere blow by accident, from a turnip out of
a greengrocer's shop.
** I served all the time at Kingston, in my
llMatrical dress. I had nothing but bread and
▼iter all the time, with gruel for breakfast
nd sapper. I had to pick oakum and make
■•ts. I was only there two days before I was
' Mde deputy- wardsman, for they saw I was a
decent sort of fellow. I was very much cut
up, thinking of the wife so near her confine-
ment It was very hard, I thought, putting
« in prison for getting our bread, for we never
kid any warning, whatever our master may
kire had. I can tell you, it was a nail in my
Mfci, these fourteen days, and one of us, of
the name of Chau, did actually die through
it, for he was of a very delicate constitution,
nd the cold laid hold of him. Why, fellows
ef our life and animation, to be shut up like
ihit, and not allowed to utter a word, it was
dicaidAd severe.
** At this time a little penny work came out,
•Blitled the * Groans of the Gallows.' I Tt as
voridng at an establishment in Whitechapel,
and it was thought that something fresh would
be a draw, and it was suggested that we should
play this • Groans of the Gallows,' for eveiy-
ttiag aboat hanging was always a hit There
¥■ such a thing as ten people in the piece,
iodfive was prominent characters. We got it
written by one of the company, and it was
ciQed ' The Groans of the Gallows, or The
Hangman's Career, illustrated with pictures.'
tWs is how we brought it out. After an
^fttture, the curtain rose and discovered a
iranp on the stage, all with pots and pipes,
fin measures, «tc They sing, * We won't go
home till morning,' and *Kightly's a jolly
food fellow.' Here the hangman is carousing
vidi them, and his wife comes in and upbraids
Mm with his intoxicating habits, and tells
him that he spends all the money instead of
forriding food for the children. A quarrel
«isiies, and he knocks her down with a quart
fotand kills her. I was the hangman. There
•then a picture of amazement from all, and
he's repenting of what he's done. He then
lays, ' This comes of a little drinking. From
As half-pint to the pint, from the pint to the
M and so on, till ruin stares me in the face.
AoC content with starving my children, I have
miirdered ray wife. Oh that this may bo a
Boraltoall!'
, **The officers come in and arrest him, when
CBtns the sheriff^ who tells him that he has
forfeited his life ; but that there is a vacancy
for the public executioner, and that if he will
accept the office his life shall be spared. He
accepts the office, and all the characters groan
at bun. This ends the first scene. In the
second enters Kightly and two officers, who
have got him and accuse him of murder. He
is taken off proclaiming his innocence. Scene
the third. Kightly discovered at table in con-
demned cell, a few months supposing to have
elapsed. The bell is tolling, and the hour of
seven is struck. Enter sheriflfe with hangman,
and they tell him to do his duty. They then
leave him, and he speaks thus : * At length,
then, two little months only have elapsed, and
you, my friend and pot- companion, aye, and
almost brother, are the first victim that I
have to execute for murder,' — and I shudder
you know — * which I know you are innocent of.
Am / not a murderer, and do I not deserve
hanging more than you? but the law will
have it's way, and I, the tool of that law, must
carry it into force. It now becomes my painful
duty to pinion your arms.' Then I do so, and
it makes such a thrill through the house. ' I
now take you from this place to your execu-
tion, where you will be suspended for one
hour, and then it is my duty to cut you down.
Have you any request to make?' He cries
* None I' and I add, * Then follow me.' I always
come on to that scene with a white night-cap
and a halter on my arm. All the audience was
silent as death as I spoke, and with tears in
their eyes. Scene the fourth. Gallows being
erected by workmen. That's a picture, you
know, our fixing the top beam with a hammer,
another at the bottom, and a third arranging
the bolt at the top. The bell still tolling, you
know. Ah, it brought it home to one or two
of them, I can tell you. As soon as the work-
men have finished they go off. Enter pro-
cession of sheriff, parson, hangman, and the
victim, with two officers behind. The parson
asks the victim if he has any request to make,
and he still says ' None,' only he is innocent
The sherifis then tell the hangman to do his
duty. He then places the white cap over the
man's head, and the noose about his neck,
and is about leaving to draw the bolt, when I
exclaim, * Something here tells me that I
ought not to hang this man. He is innocent,
and I know it I cannot, and I will not take
his life.' Enter officer in haste, with pardon
for Kightly. I then say, * Kightly, you are
free ; live and be happy, and I am ' Here
the sheriff adds, * Doomed to the galleys for
life.' That's because I refused to kill him, you
know. I then exclaim, * Then I shall be
h^PPy* knowing that I have not taken this
man's life, and be thus enabled to give up the
office of executioner and it's most horrid
paraphernalia.' Then there's blue fire and
end of piece.
*• That piece was very successful, and run
for three weeks. It drew in a deal of money.
The boys used to run after mo in the
144
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON P0OJL
stteets and call me Caloraft, 80 great was
the fait I miule in the part. On one oo-
casion a woman was to be himg, and I was
goioK along Newgate, jnist the prison, on the
Sundiiy evening. There waft a qnantily of
peojilo congrrguteil, and some of the lads
then rccognisetl me from seeing me act in the
* Gronns Irum the Gallows,' and they sung out
* Here comes (Jalcralt!* Eveiy eye was turned
towards me. Some said, ' No, no ; that ain't
him :' but tlie boys replied, *• Oh, yes it is ;
that's the man that placed it at the gaff.' Of
course I mizzled, for fear of a stone or two.
'*Tlie pay of an actor in private business
rarioK from two shillings and sixpence to
three sliillings, and each man is also supposed
to sin^ two songs in each perfoimance, wliich
mokes three ])urformances a night besides
perfonuing a sketch. Your engagement lasts
as long ns you suit the audience ; for if you'ra
a fuvotuite you may have such a tiling as nine
months at a time. Whenever we have a
henotit it's a tii-ket one, which amounts to
two hmidred tickets and your night's salar>',
which gcnerslly biings you in a pound, with your
pay incluiled. There's one in the company
generally has a benefit every Thursday, so
that your turn comes once in about six montlis,
for the musicians, and the checktokers, and all
has their turn.
** The expense of putting a new piece on f lie
stage is not more than a pound, and tliat in-
clud«;snew scenery. They never do such a thing
as buy new dw^sses. rerhn]»3 they pay sucli
a thinir as six shillings a-wcek for their ward-
i-oliO to hire the dresses. Some gives as much
as ten shillings ; but then, naturally, the cos-
tume is more showj'. All that we an» sup-
posed to find is russet boots, a set of llesh-
ing;4, a ballot shirt, and a A\ig.
" T<)wn w«irk is the m(»re quiet and moro
general-business like. Then?'s no casualty in
it, for you're not in shares, but on salaries,
and after your work there's your money, for
we are paid nightly. I have known as much
as thirty-live sliillings a-weok given at «)ne of
these theatres, when tlie admission is only a
penny and twojTencc. "Where I was at it
would hold from six to seven himdred people,
and there was throe performances a-night ;
and, indeed, on Saturdays and Mondays t'ene-
rally four. We have no extra pay for extra
performances. The time allowed for each
representation is from one hour to nn hour and
three-quarters. If we find tliere is a likeli-
hofjd of a fomth house, wo leave out a
s<mg each sinjjrer, and that saves half an
hour. As soon as one house is turned out
onotlier comes in, for they anj always waiting
outside the doors, and there is a rush imme-
diately the house is empty. We begin at six
and are over by a few minutes before twelve.
When we do si>eaking pieces wo have to do it
on the sly, as we should be stopped and get
into trouble."
BaLLBT PSBIOBXEBf.
** The Ballet," said a street-daaeer to me, *' u «
▼617 ikvourito amuBement with the people who
go to cheap penny theatras. They are all
comic, like pantomimes; indeed, they oome-
under that term, only there's no oomic acenet
or troosfomiations. They're like the stoiy
of a pantfimime, and notliing else. Neaii;
all the popular downs are famous for their
ballet iierformances ; they take the comic parts
mostly, and the pantaloons toko the old men's
parts. Ballets have been favourites in this
uountr}' for forty or fifty year. There is alwayv
a comic part in every ballet. I have known.
ballctH to be vor}' popiUar for ever since I cin
rememluir, — and Uiat's thirty years. AtaU
tlie gatrs, where tliey are afhiid to speak
their parts tliey always have a balleL Eveiy
one in London, and tliero are plenty of them»
have one every nijrht, for it's ver}- seldom they
ventiure upon a talking play.
" In all ballets tlio costume is fnuciful. The
yomig ladies come on in short petticoat^,,
like them at the opera. S<imo of the gurk.
wo have ixre the siimo as have been in the
o])era cori>s-de-ballet. ^Ir. Flexmore, the ce-
lebrated clown, is a ballet performer, and
then*'K not a greater man going for the ballet
tliat he appears in. called ^ The Dancing Scotoh*
man.' There's I*aul Herring, too; lie's veiy
famous. U(.>'s the only man I know of that
can play I'uuch, for ho works the speaker in
his mouth ; and he's been a great Punch-and>
Judy man in bis time. lie's very clever !&
• The Sprite of tlie Vineyanl, or tlio Meny
Devil of Como.' They've brcn playing it at
Crt* mome laUily, and a very successful allair
it was.
** When a professional goes to a ffaff to gel
an cngaKemeiiU they in general inquires whe-
ther lit! is a gooil ballet performer. Kveri'thing
depends upon tliut. The\' also acts ballets at
some of the cjucert-rooms. At the Bisinjf
Sun, Knightsbridge, as well as the Brown
Bear, lv.nightsbri<lge. they play them for A.
week at a time, and then drop them for a tart-
nigiit for a change, and p(>rhaps have tumblera.
instead; then they have tlir'iti again for a weok^
and so on. In Botditfo Highway, at Ward's
Hoop and Grapes, and also the Albion, and
the Prince lU^gent, they always play ballets at
stilted intervals. Also the Kfilngham Saloon,
Whitechapel, is a celebrated bidlei- house. The
admission to all Uiese hoimes is ^(i. I be-
lieve. At the Highway, when the sli^g ave
u]) and the sailors ashore, business is YCfj
biisk, and they are admitted to the rooms gra-
tuitously ; and a fine thing they make of them^
for they are good hearted fellows and don't
mind what money they bpeud. I've known one
who was a little way goiu; to chuck ]ialf-a>
crown on the stage to some actor, and Tv^
known others to spend a ])Ound at one bit,—-
standing to all round! Qnu night, when I
LOVDON LABOUB AND THE LONDON POOR.
14A
erforming ballets at the Bising Snn,
tiibiidge, Mr. Hill, the Queen's coach-
hrewiue two half-crowns on to the stage,
d been supposed to be fighting, — I and
kte, — and to hare got so exhausted we
)WB, and Mr. Hill come and poured
glasses of port-wine negus down our
» aa we laid. I've repeatedly had It.
. thrown to mo b^ the grooms of the
nt people of nobility, such as the Bus-
nd various other families.
good ballet performer will get averaging
. pound to 3djr. arweek. They call Pai^
ig a star, and he la one, for he always
wherever he goes. I goneitdly get my
hats my running price, though I try for
I. ; but '25«. is about my mark. 1 have
, modt' Paul Herring my stuily, and I
get to perform with Iiim, for he's the
own of thi? day, and a credit to work with.
8 impossible to say how many ballet
mers th«*re are. There are such a host
m it's impossible to state that, for they
} so. Then a great many are out of em-
ent untU Christmas, for that gt-nendly
e vacancies up. My wife does a little in
, though sho is i)rineipally a poses plas-
jirl, 1 married my wilo otl* the table.
le of the most kuccpssIuI biill(»ts is tlie
Blanche. It has been perfonned at
Lheatre in London, both the cheap and
*gular. The Surrey is an enormous
or it. It came out, I believe, in Giimuldi's
It was played a fortnight ago at the
:, and I took the port of the old man,
was very successful; so far so, that I
dtuation for Christmas. lt*s nn excel-
lot, and runs an hour and a quarter to
begins with a romantic view, with a
i on the right hand, and whitu palings
it, ond a »iuantity of straw laying on the
The villagers and the lover come on.
goes to cottage door and knocks three
when lady appeal's atwind<»w. Ho bal-
t her, * Will you come down here and
f * Slie comes, and th«*y all do a country
At the end of the dance the old man
rd to cough inside cottage. He opens
Bdow and sees the girl outside, and
I his fist at her. The lover hides be-
3C lady. Ho comes out and sends his
Ler into cottage, and sends tlie lover off
his business. Ho refuses to do so.
Id man makes a blow at him with his
he makes another, wlien lover bobs
ind stick strikes Pierrot in the face, and
9 him down. This Pierrot is the Simp-
thc bullet, and he's dressed in white,
30g sleeves, and a white face, and white
on his head. The ballot is from the
b, and its real title is ' La Statue Blanche,'
li we call it * The Statue Blanche.'
9ver is driven off stage, and old man
up Simpkin, and ballets to him that he's
oixy but he thought it was the lover, and
tells him to hide under the stxmw which ia on
the stage, and that if the lover cornea again to
lay hold of him, to call asmstancc. Ha
hides, and old man goes into cottage.
^ Lover comes a^oin with viUof^ers carrying
flails, and they begm to thresh thu straw with
Simpkin under it They thresh him round
stage. He knocks at door three timea, aad
the third blow knocks oM man in the face.
Out he comes staggering. The old man
threatens to sack lover. He goes into cottage
and brings out lover's bundle, and throws it to
lover, and sends him away. The lover appeals
to old man, but all to no use. The lover then
ballets to him that ho has got no money, so
the old man hands his purse, which Simpkia
takes and carries up stage. The lover atill-
asks for money, and the old man is astoniabed,..
and then turns round and sees Simpkin, and
makes him return it Exit old man and Simp-
kin into cottage, leaving lover on stage. He
h?an8 against wing very disconsolate, when an
artist comes on with a scrap-book to sketch
the scene. He asks the lover what is the mat-
ter, and then he tells him he has a plan if
lover will become a skctcher ; and if he likes to
do so, he will make, a statue of him and sell
him to the old man, as he deals in antiquities,
and by that plan he will be able to gain the-
girl. They go off, and another obi mnii comes
on and knocks at door, which old father opens,
and tldnking it is lover tumbles him over. Ho
then says he's very sorry for mistaking him for
the lover. They make it up, and the old man
says he has plenty of money, and has come to
marrj' the daughter. They embrace, and old
father invites old man to 8t4>p inside and have
something to drink. As the setrond old man
is going in, the Simpkin jumps over his head
and hides ; and old man swears it is the lover,
and hunts for liim, but cant find him, and
enters cottage. The second scene has got the^
tea business in it, and the blacking of the old
lover's face. The comic business here is, they
are ha^'ing tea, and Simpkin is waiting on
them, and does every thing ver}* clumsy. He
carries on the old business of stirring the
tea up with a candle, and then he puts the
dirty kettle on the cloth and mokes a mark ; so
he thinks for a minute, and then wipes the
bottom of the kettle with the old lovor'a
handkeitihief when he is not looking. Then
Simpkin steals the milk-jug, and as he is
drinking the old father hits him on the
stomach, and makes him sputter in old lover's
face, whr) instantly snatches up the dirty
handkerchief to wipe his face, and blacks it
all over with the soot from the bottom of the
kettle. Then there is some comic businoaa
about Simpkin breaking tlie tea-things, and
bursting a coat in two; and then scene
changes to a romantic view, with a pedestal in
the centre, and statue on it The old father
comes on with the girl and Simpkin, and the
villagers, who have all come to riew the statue.
The old wiftw then caJ[b the artist, and tells him
146
LONDOK LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
to wind up the Btatae that he may see how it
works. The statne does several positions, and
the old man hays it They all go off hut
Simpkin, the lac^, and the old man. (The
statue is still on the pedestal, you know.) The
old man cautions Simpkin not to touch the sta-
tue, for he's going away. As soon as he is gone,
Simpkin goes and winds it up until he hreaks
the spring. Then in oomes Uie old man again,
and the fool goes to a comer and protends to
be asleep. He is pulled up by the ear and
shown what he has done, and is about to
be beaten, when girl intercedes and puts
the statue to rights. They go off, leaving
Simpkin with the statue. Lady returns, and
statue jumps down and embraces her. The
statue Uien takes off his helmet and wig, and
chucks it at Simpkin, and rushes off with girl,
and the clown mounts tlio pedestal. Enter
old man, who ballets that he'll Iiave a tium as
nobody is there. He goes and looks at statue,
and perceives that he is in a different position.
He turns the handle and Simpkin jumps about,
burlesquing what the lover has done. Then
Simpkm jumps down, and pushes the old man
round stage with a club in his hand. Old
man sings out ' Murder ! ' when lover returns
with girl and stops Simpkin from knocking
him down. They tell the old man they are
married, and he joins their hands, and a
general dance winds up the performance.
** That's one of the most successful ballets
ever imagined, and in its time has drawn
thousands and thousands to see it. I dont
know who wrote the ballet, but I should ima-
gine it was the property of Grimaldi's father,
who was a great pantomimist.
*' There's a new ballet, called * The Dream
before the Wedding, or the Ploughboy turned
Sailor.' That one depends more upon the
lover than the comic man. There's another,
called * The Boatman of the Ohio. ' That's a
comic nigger ballet, in which the banjo and
bones are introduced ; and there's a ver}- funny
duet song, to the tune of * Roley poley.' They
both hide in a clock-case to hide from the old
man, and they frighten each other, for they put
their ugly black faces out and take each other
for the devil. Then there's * The Barber and
the Beadle.' The barber is one of Paul Her-
ring's favourite characters. I^'e done the
beadle to his barber. There's a very first-
rate scene in it with the fop, — Jemmy Green
he's called, a cockney sort of a fellow, — and
this barber has to shave him, and cuts his
nose, and ties him in a chair, and shoves the
soap-suds in his mouth. This fop is arranging
with the father about the daughter, and the
barber ties a line to a pole and fishes off the
old man's wig. The beadle is the father of
the girl. It goes immense. I've played in it
during my time more than 400 times.
** Another famous ballet is * The Cobbler
and the Tailor.' There's a celebrated fight in
that, between the tailor with his sleeve-board
and goose, and the cobbler with his clam and
his awl. The tailor tries to bum me with the
goose, and he hunts me all abouL W« are
about twenty minutes fighting. It's a never-
failing fight, that is. The ueeve-boards are
split to mdie a noise at each knock, and so is
the clam. There's one, two, three, four,
and a crack on the nob. We keep it up till
both are supposed to fall down exhausted.
Then there's crowing ' Cock-a-doodle-doo ' at
each other. We ei^oy it just as much as the
audience do, for it's very f\inny. Although
the shirt is sticking to our backs with perspur-
ation, we enter into the sport quite like them
in front. We generally prefer winter for this
ballet, for it's hot work ; or if it's in the open
air, like in gardens, then it's -'very delightfrd.
" One of the principal things in ballet per-
forming is to be able to do the raps, or slaps,
well and quickly. A fellow gives me a clap
on the face in the piece, then I have to slap
my hands together, and make a noise as if he
had given me a tremendous knock down. Of
course, the closer the sound is to the blow,
the better is the effect ; and the art is to do it
close. That's what we call good working.
The people, of course, fbllow with their eye
the fist of the striker, and the one struck has
his arms down in front, and claps them to-
gether. It is the same work as they do in
the pantomimes. Another trick is hitting
the knuckles when fighting, also striking on
the head. That's done by holding the stick
close to the pate, and that takes the blow.
On the knuckles the striker aims just above
the fingers. It wants a quick eye. A fellow
caught me on the nose, at the Bower, the
other night, and took the skin off the tip ; and
there's tlie mark now, you see. The pnncipal
distinction between pantomimes and ballets is
that there are more cascades, and trips, and
valleys in pantomimes, and none in ballets.
'* A trip is a dance between Harlequin and
the Columbine ; and cascades and vsdleys aie
trundling and gymnastic performances, such
as tumbling across the stage on wheels, and
catching hold of hands and twirling round.
'* We have done a kind of speaking ballet,
where there is a little singing and tallung just
to help out the plot. It is a kind of panto-
mime sketch. It is entitled, * The Magie
Mirror, or how to reclaim a dnmken Sen-ant'
I was the author of it, for I'm generally en-
gaged expressly to get up ballets, and occa-
sionally they expect me to do a new one for
them. I get frx>m 25<. to dO<. a- week for such
an engagement. The scene opens with a
chamber in the fit>nt of the stage, with a candle
on the table nearly burnt out The clock
strikes four. A servant in liveiy is waiting up
for liis other servant He yawns and does
the sleepy business. Then he says, ' TMien-
ever it is Thomas's day out he stops so very
late ; master has threatened to discharge him,
and he will get the sack. Would that I could
reclaim him ! I will endeavour to do so. I
wish he would return. ' And that's the cue for
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOM.
147
tier one off the stage to begin singing
een roving, I've been roving,* &e. Then
mest servant says, ' He comes ! Now
0 form a magic looking-glass, wherein
L see his errors. Now to procure four
of timber.' He does so, and makes a
» frame or strainer. < Now for a few
He gets them, and then takes a
curtain down from the window, and
it on the back of the frame, which forms
ing-glass. Then lights is turned down
ge, and he puts a candle behind the
', which illuminates this gauze, you see.
en hides behind the glass,
tiomas comes in very tipsy. He does
ronken business, and then says, ' I*ve
Ike best of cheer. I've been down to
r Cheer's, and had the best of ale, and
jood gin, and better brandy;' at which
MXk behind the frame echoes, ' Better
f.* Thomas is alarmed. He looks
i and says, * That was the echo.' To
the voice rephes, * That was the echo.'
they repeat this business ; Thomas geU
tin more nervous. He says, ' Well, I
e, I'm getting quite melancholy. I'll see
m^:ing can do to rouse me a little. ' He
•egms,—
ris lorm that rales the eoortfl and the city,
It nilet both the high and the low ;
tet aometixDes—the more is the pity —
TottOffCupid won't rosin his bow.
won't rosin his bow.'
he 0»m takes up ' Rosin his bo-o-o-o-w.'
ime this is going on, the other servant
••Bing himself to represent the other;
Bg hb hair, and painting his face,
reiything. Thomas gets quite I don't
tiow ; and he says, ' I wonder if I look
oed?' And he goes to the glass, and
ler appears at the same time, and it
ike the reflection in the glass. 'I've had
fools imagine it was the reflection.
18 says ' Oh, I look very nice ! ' and as
eaks the other opens his mouth too.
rhomas says, * Why I've got some black
nose ! ' and he goes to wipe it, and the
ehind imitates him.
» then goes down the stage and returns
!8 again. There's a deal of business
Ion. At last Thomas sees the figure
jimd whilst he's looking in front, and
e exclaims, * That's not me ! My waist-
in't split up the back ! I'll smash the
He knocks down the gauze, and out
he figure, yelling ' Ah ! I'm the glass
Thomas falls down on the stage, and
1 imp walks about, one off the side at
ing thumps the ground at each step
piece of wood, to mark the steps. Then
irvant says, ' Fe fi fo fum, I smell the
of an Englishman;' and Thomas an-
' Oh no, Mr. Ghost, I sdn't an English.
rm a Irish woman ;' and there's a shout
t, of course. The servant continues,—
' Let him be alive, let him be dead,' — and
Thomas says ' I'm as dead as a red herring ! '
and there's another shout The fellow-servant
then catches hold of Thomas by the hair of
the head, and tells him to follow him below.
Thomas replies * Oh dont .' please, don't, Mr.
Ghost ! I'll do anything but foUow you be-
low, though you are so good-looldng.' ' Will
you promise to come home early for the future?'
* I will.' ' And never drink no more brandy
nor stout?' *I will.' The fellow-servant
shouts in a hoarse voice, ' Nay, Slave ! not I
will, but I will not.' • Not' * Enough ! rise
and look at me.' ' Oh, I wouldn't for the
world.* • Don't you know me ? ' * Oh no ! no !
no ! I never saw you before.' ' It's all right,
I'm your friend James : your fellow-servant ! '
Then Thomas gets up and sees him, and be-
gins laughing. ' Oh, I wasn't frightened : I
knew you all the time. ' The other cove then
shouts, * Fe fi fo film ;' and down goes Thomas
on his face and screams *■ Murder! murder ! *
Then James says, * Oh, it's only me; look!'
Then Thomas looks and says, * Well, I declare
I thought you was the glass imp.' * No, I
only played this prank to reclaim you. Has
it had its effect?' ' It has.' ' Then I have
gained my end, since you are reformed ; and
I hope you are reformed.' * I am ; and I hope
it will be a lesson to my friends in front, and
that they will never take a drop too much.'
Then they sing together —
'Trotiblas all, sreat and small,
You must think not of the past ;
For life is short, and mirth and sport
Cannot ever last
Cannot over last
Cannot over last.'
*< That pantomimic farce always goes down
with wonderfiil success. It has a regular
round of applause, which is everybody dap-
ping as hard as they can. Some of the tavern-
keepers, in whose concert-rooms we done this
ballet pantomime, don't much like the wind-up
to this piece, — about hoping our friends wiU
take a lesson, and not drink too much. At
one place the landlord happened to come just
as that line was spoke, and he told me he'd fine
me sixpence if I done it again. ' Why, I ain't
sold a dozen pots of beer through it,' he says.
So I agreed with him to alter the tag to this,—
* and not drink no more than you can carry,
for that never did any one any harm, but
more is injurious. ' At some of these rooms,
if a song is going too long and no drinking,
the landlord will come in, and hold his
hand up, as a cue for us to leave off and let
the drinking begin again. Then the waiters
looks the audience up again with their * Give
your orders, gentlemen ; give your orders.'
'* This bcdlet pantomime was quite an inno-
vation, and isn't strictly ballet, but in the same
line.
*< Of all ballets, the one that has found the
longest ran is the * Statue Blanche.' I've
148
LONDON LABOUR ASD THE LONDON POOB.
known it to go a month. All the young ladie^*
in those pifcos ore repular ballet-girls, rtiul all
* tunitnl out;' thnt is, taught to stand with
their dancing position. You know all of iheiu
is HujiiKwed to be uhlc tft kick thoir nose
with thfir knees. You know they crick them
when young, the sanio as a contortionist or
arobat. They are always practiKing. You
see them in the green-room kicking their legs
about. The men have to do the Kanie, except
the comic characters tliat don't dance. I'aul
Herring is very clever at these things, and
don't wiuit no pnustising. He can scruteli his
head with his foot. He's the finest clown Uiat
ever trod in shoe-leather.
" The green-rooms at the concert-rooms are
very tidy. Even at the ])enny gaffh the men
and women have separate rooms. Tlu? women
there have got their decency the same as at u
theatre, and tliey wouldn't go there if there
wasn't separate dressing-rooms. In fact, they
keep themselves more from tlte mtm than the
men fh>m them, for they are all mailames ; and
tliough they only keep a wheelbarrow, they
carr>' themselves as if they had a coach.
*^ At the concert-rooms they have always
a useful set of scenery, about similar to tliat
at the penny gafifs. At some of them you don't
get so good scenery as at the gafis. There's in
general a romantic scene, and a cottage, and
BO forth, and that's all that's wanted. There's
a regular proscenium to the theatres, with
lights in front and all. The most usual man-
ner is to have a couple of fi(;ures at the sides
holding lights, and curtains behind them, l>e-
cause it answers for the ballets and also for
the singinj:. At some of the conc«'rt-rooms
there's no side-entrance to the st.ii^e, and then
you have to go across the auilience dress<>d in
your costume, befon.>y< mean get on to tlie stage.
It's horrid, that is. I've done it many and many
a time at KiiiKhtsbridgc. It's verj- l)ud,for every-
thing depends upon being discovered when tlie
curtain (Iraws up. Some of the p»?ople will say,
* Oh, tliat's nothing ; I've seen him liefore.'
*' I hare repeat^y seem people in front go
to the stage and offer their glass to tlio actor
to drink. We arc forbid to reuoive them, be-
cause it interferes with business ; but we do
take it. 1*^-0 seen drink handed on to tlie
stage from three to four times a-night
" Sometimes, when a dance has pleased the
audience, or an acrobat, or a bottle equilibrist,
they'll throw halfpence on to the stage, to
reward tlie performer. We sometimes do this
for one another, so as to give the collection a
start. We are forbidden to take money when
it is thrown on to us, but wo do. If a skpence
comes, we in general clap our foot on to it,
and then your mate gives you a rap on the
face, and we tumble down and put it in our
mouth, 80 that the proprietor shan't see us.
If be saw it done, and he could find it, he'd
take it away if he could. I have known a man
pick up as much as Sf. after a dance. Then
thare are gananQj some one who is not en-
gaged on the establishment, sod he comes for
what we term * tlie nobbings,' that's what ii
throw'd to him. I've known a clog-dancer, d \
the name of Thompson, to earn as much m !
IOj. of a night at tJie various oonoeTt-rooms. \
lie's ver}' clever, and mi^r be seen any nightat j
the Hoop and Grapes, BatcliSe-highway. Ha
does 10» different steps, and 51 of them as '
on his toes. |
" There's in general firom five to six peopb i
engaged in a concart-room performances, mI |
for professionals alone that'll come to fron i
;10<. to 2/. a-night for expenses for acton sai
singers. That's putting down nothing for ths
conductor, or musicians, or gas. Someofthim
charge 2<<. or \d, admission, but then theirt I
something extra put on to the drink. Portff ^
is bd. a pot, and fourpenny ale is chaiged 6^ '
besides, you can't have less than (id, worUicf '■
gin-aiid-watcr. At such a room as the Nig^ :
Head in Oxford-street, IVe known as maqyjs
from '.iUU to .300 go there in the evening; sal
the Standard, Pimlico, will hold from 400 to
450 people, and I've seen that frill for niglill
together. There they only have menuy a
platform, and seldom do ballets, or GnciB
statues, dancing, gymnastics, and various otkff
entertainments, such as ventriloquism. ThflB
the admission is 4(/., and on benefit ooflt-
sions Gcj.'
The TiOHT-Bopc Dikcebb axd Snu-
YAUxaxuu
" I AM the father of two little girls who per-
form on the tight-rope and on siUts. Myirifo
also performs, so that tlic family by itadf sai
give an entertaiimient that lasts an hoar snd a
half altogether. I dtm't .pcrfoim myselC bit I
go about making the arrangements nod engs^a-
monte for thenu Managers write to mefinft
the country to get up entertainments ficv th«b
and to imdertske tlie speculatLon at ao moik
Indeed I am a manager. I hixe a ph^s of
amusement, and hire it at so much; crif thcf
wont let it, then I take an .engagement fir
tlie family. I never fancied any profossicmsl
work myself, except, x>criiiV8» a kot cf sonlf-
turc. I am rather pakial to the .poses pltf-
tiques, but that's all.
" Iloth my little girls are under eight yssn
of age, and they do the still- waltzing, and tkt
eldest does tlie ti^ht-roxie business oa <mIL
Their motlier is a tight-rope danoer, and dosi
the same business as Madame fiayin nssd to
appear in, such as the ascension on the rofs
in the midst of fireworks. We had man a
England who had done the ascension beCois
Madame Saj'in came out atVaoxhall, bat I
think she was the first woman that ever did
it in tills country. I remember her walL
She lodged at a relation of mine during btf
engagement at tlie Cxardens. She was « u^
litUo woman, very diminutive, and trsmsD-
dously pitted with the small-pox. She «M
what may be oalled a hon^ woman, very toufh
and bo^y. IVe heard my father and motfMT
LONDON ZABOUB AND THE LONDON POOR.
148
liad 5MML a-nig^ at Ysnxfa&ll, and
it three times a-week; but I can't
V this, as it was only hearsay,
ildest little girl &:st began doing the
public when she was thrco-and a-half
i. I don't suppose she was much more
>-and-a-ha]f years old when I first put
the stilts. They were particularly
as about four foot from the grotmd, so
came to about as high as my arms.
he funniest thing in the world to see
le hadn't got sufficient strength in her
3 keep her legs stiff, and she used to
about just hke a fellow drunk, and
i use of bis limbs. The object of
ig so soon was to accustom it, and she
y on for a few minutes once or twice
She liked this veiy mrach, in fact so
bat the other little ones used to cry
Ees because I wouldn't let them haye
t them. I used to make my girl do
like a bit of fun. She'd be laughing
ick her sides, and we'd be laughing to
little legs bending about. I had a
!88 made for her, with a spangled
md gauze skirt, and she always put
when she was practising, and that
induce her to the exercise. She was
as Punch when she had her fine
on. When she wasn't good, I'd say
•Very well, miss, since you're so
, you shan't go out with us to perform ;
(ji your little sister, and take her with
leave you at home.' That used to
*r in a moment, for she didn't like the
laving the other one take her place,
a i>eople, when they teach then: chil-
' any entertainment, torture the little
DOBt dreadftiL There is a great deal
rity xn^actiBed in teaching children for
ons lines. It's yory silly, because it
^tens the little things, and some chil-
;en will do much more by kindness
osage. Now there are several children
aow of that have been severely iivjured
eing trained for the Risley business.
ess your soul, a little thing coming
it's head, is done for the remainder
ife. Tve seen tlicra crying on the
loblidy, from being sworn at and
where they would have gone to it
% if they had only been coaxed and
3d.
' my little things took to h almost
y. It was bred and bom in them, for
jeac was in the profession before me,
wife's parents were also perform(»rs.
I both my little girls on the stilts
ley were three years old. It's astonish-
soon tlie leg gets accustomed to the
ir in less than three months they
c alone. Of course, for the first six
lat they are put on we never leave go
hands. The knees, which at first is
id wabbly, gets strong, and when onco
osed to the pad and stump (for the
stilts are fastened on to Just where the garter
woiUdoome), then the child is all right. It
does not enlarge the knee at all, and instead
of CTOOoking the leg, it acts in a similar way
to what wu see in a child bom with the
cricks, with irons on. I should say, that if any
of my children have been bom knock-kneed,
or bow-legged, the stilts have been the means
of making their legs straight. It docs not
fatigue their ankles at oU, but tlie principal
strain is on the hollow in the palm of the
foot, where it fits into the tread of the still,
for that's the thing that bears the whole
weight. If you keep a chfld on too long, it
will complain of pain there ; but mine were
never on for more than twenty minutes at a
time, and that's not long enough to tire the
foot. But one gets over this feeling.
"I've had my young ones on the stilts
amusing themselves in my back-yard for a
whole afternoon. TheyH have them on and
off three or four times in a hour, for it don't
take a minute or two to put them on. They
would put them on for play. I've often had
them asking me to let them stop away from
school, so as to have them on.
•• My wife is very clever on the stilts. She
does the routine of militaiy exercise with
them on. It's the gun exercise. She takes
one stilt off herself, and remains on the other,
and then shoulders the stilt she has taken ofl^
and ihows the gun practice. She's the only
female stilt^ancer in England now. Those
that were with her when she was a girl are aU
old women now. AIL of my family waltz and
polka on stilts, and play tamborines whilst
they dance. The little girls dance with their
mother.
*• It took longer to teach the children to do
the tight-rope. They were five years old
before I first began to teach them. The first
thing I taught them to walk upon was on a
pole passed tlirough the rails at the back of
two chairs. When you're teaching a child,
you have not got time to go driving stakes into
the ground to fix a rope upon. My pole waa
a bit of one of my wife's broken balance-
poles. It was as thick as a broom handle,
and not much longer. I had to lay hold of
the little things' hands at first Tliey had no
balance-pole to hold, not for some months
afterwards. My young ones liked it very
much ; I don't know how other persons may.
It was bred in them. They conldnt stand
even upright when first they tried it, but after
three months they could just walk across it
by themselves. I exercised them onco eveiy
day, for I had other business to attend to,
and I'd give them a lesson for just, perhaps,
half on hour at dinner time, or of an evening
a bit after I came home. My vrife never
would teach them herself. I taught my wife
rope-dancing, and yet I could not do it; but I
understood it by theory, though not by e^
perience. I never chalked my j'oong tmef
feet, but I put them on a little pair of camraa
150
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
pnmps, to get the feet properly formed to | we took somewhere aboat 25s. a^ay. When
grasp the rope, and to bend round. My wife's j it isn't too far from London, we generally
feet, when she is on the rope, bend round
from continual use, so that they form a hollow
in the palm of the foot, or the waist of the
foot as some call it. My girls' feet soon took
the form. The foot is a little bit tender at
first, not to the pole, because that is round
and smooth, but the strands of the rope
would, until the person has had some prac-
tice, blister the foot if kept too long on it. I
never kept my young ones on the pole more
than twenty minutes at a time, for it tired me
more than them, and my arms used to ache with
supporting them. Just when they got into
the knack and habit of walking on the pole,
tlicn I shifted them to a rope, which I fixed
up in my bnck-yard. The rope has to be a
good cable size, about one-and-a-half inches in
diameter. I always chalked the rope ; chalk
is of a very rough nature, and prevents slip-
ping. The sole of the pump is always more or
less hard and greasy. We don't rough tho
Boles of the pumps, for the rope itself will
soon make them rough, no matter how bright
they may have been. My rope was three feet
six inches from the ground, which was a com-
fortable height for me to go alongside of Uie
children. I didn't give them me balance-
pole tiU they were pretty perfect without it.
It is a great help, is the pole. The one my
wife takes on the rope with her is eightL*en
ffet long. Some of the poles are weighted at
both ends, but ours are not. My young ones
were able to dance on the rope in a twelve-
montli's time. They wem't a bit nervous when
I liighered the rope in my yard. I was
underneath to catch tliem. They seemed to
like it
" They appeared in public on the tightrope
in less than a twelvemonth from their first
lesson on the bmom-stick on the backs of the
diairs. My girl hod done the stilts in public
when she was only three years and six months
old, so she was accustomed to an audience.
It was in a gardens she made her first per-
formance on the rope, and I was under her
in case she fell. I always do that to this
doy.
•* ^Miencver I go to fairs to fulfil engage-
ments, I always take all my own apparatus
with me. There is tlie rope some twenty
yards long, and then there's the pulley-bloi'ks
for tigh twining it, and the cross-poles for fixing
it up, and the balance-poles. I'm obliged to
have a cart to take them along. I always
make engagements, and never go in shares,
for I don't like that game. I could have lots
of jobs at that game if I liked. There's no
hold on the proprietor of the show. There's a
share taken for this, and a share for this, so
that before the company come to touch juiy
money, twenty shares are gone out of thirty,
and only ten left for the i>erformcrs. I have
had a pouii«l a-day for myself and family at a
fair. At the last one I went to, a week ago,
come home at night, but otherwise we go to a
tavern, and put up there.
*' I only go to circuses when we are at fairs.
I never had a booth of my own. The young
ones and my wife walk about tln^ patiide to
make a show of the entire company, but
unless business is very ba^l, and a draw is
wanted, my little ones don't appear on the
stilts. They have done so, of course, but I
don't like them to do so, unless as a fa^-our.
*' In tlie ring, their general performance it
the rope one time, and then reverse it and do
the stilts. My wife and the girls all have
their turns at the rope, following each other
in their performances. The band generally
Slays quadrilles, or a waltz, or aoyUiing ; it
on't matter what it is, so long as ii is the
proper time. They dance and do the gpiingi
in the air, and they also perform with chairs,
seating themselves on it whilst on tlie nme,
and also standing up on the chair. They aLo
have a pair of ladders, and mount them.
Then again they dance in fetters. I am tliere
underneath, in evening costume, looking after
them. They generally wind up their tight-
rope performance by flinging away the balance-
pole, and dancing without it to quick mea-
sure.
" One of my little girls slipped off once, but
I caught her directly as she came down, uid
she wasn't in the least frightened, and went
on again. I put her down, and she cuitBied,
and ran up again. Did she scream? Of
course not. You can't help having a slip off
occasionally.
"When they do the stilts, the yomig
ones only dance waltzes and x>olkas. and so
on. They have to use their hands for doisff
the graccfrd attitudes. My wife, as I said
before, does the gun exercise besides dancing,
and it's olwajrs very sucocssfhl with the andlh
ence, and g«>es down tremendously. The per-
formances of the three takes about twenty
minutes, I think, for I never timed it exactly.
I've been at some fairs when we have done our
performances eighteen times a-day, andTve
been at some where I've only done it four or
six, for it always depends upon what business
is being done. That's tlie truth. TMien the
booth is full, Ujien the inside performance
begins, and until it is, the parade work is
done. There are generally persons engaged
expressly to do the parade business.
" I never knew my girls catch cold at a fajr.
for they are generally held in hot weather, and
the heat is rather more com]>]ained of than
the cold. My young ones put on three or
four different dresses during a fair — at least
mine do. I dont know what others do. Each
dress is a different colour. There is a regular
dressing-room for the ladies under the parade
carriages, and tlieir mother attends to them.
" Very often after tlicir performances tliey
get fruit and money thrown to tlieiu into the
JiQrKDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON JPOOR,
151
ring. I've Ittown semen or eight ehillings
to be thrown to them in eoppers and silver,
but it's seldom they get more than a shilling
or so. I've known ladies and gentlemen wait
for ihem when they went to uko ofif their
dresses after they have done, and give them
live or six shillings.
•* When we go to fairs, I always pack the
joimg ones off to bed about nine, and never
ktar than ten. They don't seem tired, and
would like to stop up all niglit, I sliould
think. I don't know how it is with other
kids.
**! send my young ones to school every
d^y when there is no business on, and they
IR getting on well with their schooling. When
ire go to a countxy engagement, then I send
thdm to a school in the town if we stop any
tims.
** Ours is, I think, the only family doing the
iqie-dancing and stHt-vaulting. I don't know
of sny others, nor yet of any other children
Jtall whodoiL
"Stilt-vaulting is dying out You never
see any children going about the streets as
jOQ did fazmezly. There never was so much
fflooey got as at that stilt-vaulting in the
tteets. My wife's family, when she was young,
thoQ^ nothing of going out of an aftconoon,
ififlr dinner, and tflJcing their three or four
ponnds. They used to be as tall up as the
tintfloor windows of some of the houses. It
mvt be very nearly twenty years since I re-
member the last that appeared. It isn't that
tbe police would stop it, but there's nobody
to do it It's a veiy <liffirnlt thing to do, is
vilkiog about at that tremendous height. If
TOO fUil you're done for. One of my little
ones fell once — it was on some grass, I think
«*bnt she escaped without nny hurt, for she
'Wis light, and gathered herself up in a heap
somehow.
** There used to be a celebrated Jellini
&mily, with a similar entertainment to what I
give. They were at the theatres mostly, and
It pnbUc gardens, and so on. They used to
do ballets on stilts, and had great success.
That must be forty years ago. There used to
be the Chaflb family too, who went about the
itRets on stilts. They had music with them,
ttd danced in the public thoroughfares. Now
thsK is nothing of the kind going on, and it's
out of date.
** I have been abroad, in Holland, travelling
^h a circus company. I've also visited
Belgium. The children and my -wife were
very much liked wherever they went. I was
on an engagement then, and we had 11/. a-
week, and I was with them seven weeks.
They paid our travelling expenses there, and
ve paid them iiome."
'SnuBET Bbciteb.
Sheet reeitera era somewhat sooroe now*A-
^7s,and I was along time before meeting with
one.; for though I could always trace them
through thoir wanderings about the streets,
and learn where they had been seen the night
before, still I could never find one myselL I
believe there are not more than ten lads in
London, — for they seem to be all lads, — ^^ho
are earning a livelihood by street-reciting.
At length I heard that some street actors, ns
they call themselves, lived in a court in tho
Oity. There were two of them— one a lad, who
was dressed in a man's ragged coat and burst
boots, and tucked-up trowsers, and seemingly
in a state of great want; and the other decently
enough attired in a black paletot with a
flash white-and-red handkerchief, or "foglo,"
as the costermongers call it, jauntily arranged
so as to bulge over the dosely-huttoned collar
of his coat There was a priggish look about
the latter lad, while his manner was '* 'cute,"
and smacked of Pettiooat-lane ; and though
the other one seemed to slink bock, he pushed
himself saucily forward, and at once informed
me that he belonged " to the profession " of
street dedaimer. " I and this other boy goes
out together," he said, as he took a short pipe
firom his mouth ; and in proof of his assertion,
he volunteered that they should on the spot
give me a specimen of their histrionic powers.
I preferred listening to the modest boy. Ho
was an extremely good-looking lad, and spoke
in a soft voice, ^most like a girl's. He had a
bright, cheerful face, and a skin so transparent
and healthy, and altogether appeored so dif-
ferent from the generality of street lads, that
I felt convinced that he had not long led a
wandering life, and that there was some m3rB-
tery connected with his jnesent pursuits. He
blushed when spoken to, and -his answers were
nervously civil.
When I had the bcttcr-natured boy alone
with mo, I found tliat he had been weU
educated ; and his statement will show that he
was bom of respectable parents, and the reason
why he took to his present course of life. At
first he seemed to be nervous, and little in-
clined to talk; but as we became better
acquainted, he chatted on even faster than my
.pen could follow. He had picked up severol of
the set phrases of theatrical parlance, such as,
" But my dream has vanished in -air ;" or, " I
felt that a blight was on my happiness ;" and
delivered his words in a romantic tone, as
though he fancied he was acting on a stage.
He volunteered to show mo his declamatory
powers, and selected " Othello's Ap<dogy." Ho
went to the back of -the room, and after throw*
ing his arms about him for a few seconda, and
looking at the oeiling as if to inspire himself,
he started oft
Whilst he had been chatting to us Ins voice
was — as I said l>ofare-^like a girl's ; but no
sooner -did he deliver his, " Most potent, grave,
and revenoadSignion,*' than I was surprised t»
hear htm aMume a deep stomachic voieo a
■tylfrevideotly founded upon the melo-dramatie
at minor theatres. His good linking
109
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOS.
face, however, became flushed and excited
during the delivexy of the speech, his eyes
rolled about, and he passed his hands through
his hair, combing it with his fingers till it fell
wildly about his neck like a mane.
When he had finished the speech he again
relapsed into his quiet ways, and resuming his
former tone of voice, seemed to think that an
apology was requisite for the wildness of his
acting, for he said, " When I act Shakspeare
I cannot restrain myself, — it seems to master
my veiy souL"
He had some little talent as an actor, but
was possessed of more memory than know-
ledge of the use of words. Like other per-
formers, ho endeavoured to make his *' points'*
by dropping his voice to almost a whisper when
he came to the passage, " I' faith 'twas strange,
'twas passing strange."
In answer to my questions he gave me the
following statement : —
** 1 am a street reciter, that is, I go about the
streets and play Shakspeare's tragedies, and
selections from poets. The boys in the streets
call mo Shakspeare. The first time they
called me so I smiled at them, and was
honoured by the name, though it's only pass-
ing I it's only fleet !
** I was bom in Dublin, and my father was
in the army, and my mother was a lady's nurse
and midwife, and used to go out on urgent
business, but only to ladies of the higher
classes. My mother died in Dublin, and my
father left the army and became a turnkey in
Dublin prison. Father left Dublin when I
was about ten years of age, and went to Man-
chester. Then I went into an office — a her-
ring-store, which had agents at Yarmouth and
other fishing-ports ; and there I had to do
writing. Summer-time was our busiest time,
for we used to have to sit up at night waiting
for the trains to come in with the fish. I used
to get Sd, an hour for every hour we worked
over, and Od. in the morning for coff'ee, and
8«. Od. standing wages, whether I worked or
played. I know all about herrings and her-
ring-packing, for I was two years there, and
the master was like a father to me, and would
give mo money many times, Christmas-boxes,
and new-years' gifts, and such-like. I might
have been there now, and foreman by this
time, in the Isle of Man, where we had a house,
only 1 was too foolish — going to theatres and
such-like.
'* You see, I used, before I went out as clerk,
to go to a school in Manchester, where the
master taught recitation. We used to speak
pieces firom Uwin's * Elocution,' and we had to
get A piece off to elocution, and attitude, and
position ; indeed, elocution may be said to be
position and attitude. We used to do * The
DownfaJl of Poland,' and * Lord UUen's Daugh-
ter,' and * My name is Norval,' and several
other»-^ Holla,' and all them. Then we used
to spetk them one at a time, and occasionally
we would take different parts, such as the
< Quarrel of Brutus,' and ' Caaaiai,' and * BoDa,'
and the * American Patriot,' and such-l&e. I
will not boast of myself, but I was one of the
best in the class, though since I have gone
out in the streets it has spoiled my voice and
my inclinations, for the people likes shouting.
I have had as many as 000 persons round me
in the Walworth-road at one time, and we
got 4«. between us ; and then we lost several
half^nce, for it was night, and we could not
see the money that was thix>wn into the rinjt.
We did the * Gipsy's Bevenge,' and * Othello's
Apology.'
** Whilst I was at tlie herxing-stores I used
to be very fond of the tlicatre, and I'd go there
every night if I could, and I did nearly manage
to be there every evening. I'd save up my
money, and if I'd none I'd go to my master
and ask him to let me have a few halfpence;
and I've even wanted to go to the play so
much that, when I couldn't get any money,
I'd sell my clothes to go. Master used to cau-
tion me, and say that the theatre would ruin
me, and I'm sure it has. When my master
would tell me to stop and do the books, I'd
only jiist run tliem over at night and cast
them up as quickly as I could, and then I'd
run out and go to the twopenny theatre on the
Victoria -bridge, Manchester. Sometimes I
used to ]>erform there for Mr. Bow, who was
the proprietor. It was what is called a travel-
ling * slang,' a booth erected temporarily. I
did William Tell's son, and Tvc also done the
* Bloody Child' in Macbeth, and go on with the
witches. It was a very little stage, but with
very nice scenery, and shift-scenes and all, the
same as any other theatre. On a Saturday
night he used to have as many as six houses ;
start off at three o'clock, after the factory
hands had been paid off. I never had any
money for acting, for though he offered m*
half-a-sovereign a-week to come and take a
part, yet I wouldn't accept of it, for I only did
It for my own amusement like. They used to
call me King Dick.
** My master knew I went to the theatre to
act, for he sent one of the boys to follow me»
and he went in front and saw me acting in
Macbeth, and he went and told master, be-
cause, just as the second act was over, he came
right behind the scenes and ordered me out,
and told me I'd have to get ouodicr situation
if I went there any more. He took me home
and finished tlie books, and the noxt morning
I told him I'd leave, for I felt as if it was my
sole ambition to get on to the stage, or even
put my foot on it : I was so enamoured of it
And it is the same now, for I'd do onj-tbing to
get engaged — it's as if a spell was on me.
Just before I left he besought me to remain
with him, and said that I was a usefbl hand
to him, and a good boy when I liked, and that
ho wanted to make a'gentleman of me. He
was so fond of me that he often gave me
money himself to go to a theatre ; but he aaid
too much of it was bad.
LONJKON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
153
[ left hkt I want with mother boy
ea. I forgot all about the theatre,
ated my feelings when I left him,
led I had been back, for I'd been
eighteen months, and he'd been like
) me ; but I was too ashamed to see
. This boy and me started for Scar-
ind he had no money, and I had 0«.,
U between ns ; but I had a black snit
cost 21, lOt^ which xoy master had
a present of^ for excelling the fore-
along up the books — for the foreman
ands of herrings (five herrings make
bort in one week ; and then I took
the next week, and I was only four
iiort, and master was so pleased that
ed upon me a present ox a new suit
ted with my companion for this
One day, after we had been walking,
) hungry we could eat anything, and
1 accustomed to never being hungry,
\ was very much exhausted from
)r we had walked thirty miles that
eating one piece of bread, which I
olUic-house where I gave a recitation,
to a farm-house at a place called
niton, in Yorkshire, and he went
door to beg for something to eat.
I a young lady came out and talked
id gave him some bread, and then
le and had compassion on me, be-
oked resi>ectable and was so miser-
) told her we were cousins, and had
bihers and mothers (for we didnt
r we had left our masters), and she
IT boys ! your parents will be fretting
; I'd go back, if I was you.' She
a large bit of bread, and then she
L hig bit of cold plum-pudding. My
1 wanted half my pudding besides his
ly and I preferred to give him part
iding and not have any bread ; but
1% and struck out at me. I returned
len we fought, and an old woman
with a stick and beat us both, and
ere incorrigible young beggars, and
e very hungry or we shouldn't fight
Then I parted from my com-
id he took the direct road to Scar,
and I went to York. I saw him
I when I returned to Manchester,
ir left him 200/., and he's doing
in a good situation in a commercial
bound for six years to sea to a ship-
Scarborough, but the mate behaved
to me and used mo brutally. I
ise the ropes as well as he thought I
though I learned the compass and
>pes very soon. The captain was a
man, but I daren't tell him for fear
ite. He used to beat me with the
1 — sometimes the lead-rope — that
isual weapon, and he used to leave
me. I took the part of Hamlet, and.
instead of complaining, I thought of that part
where he says,
' And makes ua rather bear thoae ilia we have.
Than fly to others that we know not oL*
That's the best play of Shaksi>eare ; he out-
docs himself there.
" When the brig got to Scheidam, in Hol-
land, five miles off Botterdam, I ran away.
The vessel was a collier, and whilst they were
doing the one, two, three, and pulling up the
coals, I slipped over the side and got to shore.
I waUced to Botterdam, and there I met an
Irish sailor and told him aJl, and he told me
to apply to the British Consul and say that I
had been left ashore by a Dutch galliot, which
find sailed the day before for Jersey. The
Consul put me in a boarding-house — a splen-
did place, with servants to wait on you, where
they gave me everything, cigars and all, for
everybody smokes there — little boys scarce
higher than the table— and cigars are only a
cent each — and five cents make a penny. I was
like a gentleman then, and then they put me
in the screw steamer, ^e ]^ell, and sent me
back to Hull.
'* When I got to Manchester again, I went
in my sailor-clothes to see my old master. He
was very glad to see me, and asked me if I
wanted anything to eat, and sent out for ale
for me, and was so glad to see me that he gave
me money. He took me back again at higher
wages, lOt.— which was 1«. %d, over — and I
stopped there eight months, until they wrote
to me firom Dublin that father was vezy ill,
and that I was to come over directly. So I
went, and was by him when he died. He was
sixty-two years of age, and left 400/. to my
sister, which she is to have when she comes
of age. He quarrelled with me because he
was a Catholic, and I didn't follow that per-
suasion, and he disowned me ; but, just before
he died, he blessed me, and looked as if he
wanted to say something to me, but he couldn't,
for the breath was leaving him.
'* When I returned to Manchester I found
my master had taken another servant, as he
expected I should stop in Dublin, and there
was no vacancy ; but he recommended me to
another merchant, and there I was put in the
yard to work among the herrings, as he didn't
know my capabilities ; but, in a short time I
was put in the shop as boy, and then I was
very much in favour with the master and the
missus, and the son, and he used to bring me
to concerts and balls, and was very partial to
me ; and I used to eat and drink with them at
their own table. I've been foolish, and never
a friend to myself, for I ran away from thenu
A lad told me that London was such a fins
place, and induced me to sell my clothes and
take the train ; and here I've been for about
eight months knocking about.
'* As long as my money lasted I used to go
to the theatre every night— to the Standaid,
154
LOIfDOir LABOUR ANlf^ THE LONDON POOR.
and the Citj-road, and tiie Britennia; but
vhen it was gone I looked then to see what I
mi^bt do. At first I tried for a situation, bat
they wouldn't take me, because I eouldn't get
a recommendation in London. Then I formed
a resolution of giving recitations fh)m Shak-
Fpeare and tiiie other poets in public-hoUBes,
and getting a liWng that wa7.
•* I bad learned a good deal- of Shakapeare
at school ; and besides, when I was with my
master I bad often bought penny oojpies oif
Shakspeore, and I used to study it in the
office, biding it under the book I was writing
in ; and, when nobody was looking, studying
the speeches. I used to go and recite before
the men in the yard, and they^ liked it.
^ The first night I went out I earned 4«.,
and that was a great cheer to my spirits. It
was at a public-house in Fashion -street. I went
into the tap-room and asked the gentlemen
if tliey would wish to hear a rcoitntion from
Shnkspeare, and they said, ♦Pixineod.* The
first part I gave tliem was firvtm Ilichard the
Thinl : • Now is the winter of our discontent;*
and then they clapped me and made me do it
over again. Tlien I iwrformed Hamlet's ' So-
liloquy on the Immortality of the Soul,* and
they threw down 25. in coppers, and one gen-
tleman gave me sixpence.
** I've continued giving recitations from
Shakspcare and selections from tho poots ever
since, and done very well, until I became
ill with a cold, which maile my voice bod, so
that I was unablo to speak. Fve been ill now
a fortnight, and I went out lost night for the
first time, along with another young fellow
who recites, and we got 1*. Orf. between us in
the • Gipsy's Revenge.* Wn m-ent to a public-
house where they were having * a lead,' that is
a collection for a friend who is ill, and the
company throw down what they con for a sub-
srription, and they have in a fiddle and mnke
it socioL But it was not a good * lead,' and
poorly attended, so we did not make much
out of the company.
" When I go out to recite, I generally go
with another boy, and we take parts. The
pieces that draw best with the public are,* The
Gipsy's Revenge,* *The Gold Digger's Re-
venge,' * Tlie Miser,' * The Robber,' * The Felon,'
and *The Highwayman.' We take parts in
these, and he always performs the villain, and
I take the noble characters. He always dies,
because he can do a splendid back-fall, and
he looks so wicketl when he's got the mous-
taches on. I generally draws the company
by giWng two or three recitations, and then
we perform a piece ; and whilst he goes round
with the hat, I recite again. MV favourite
recitations are, ' Othello's Apology,' beginning
with * Most potent, grave, and reverend Sig-
niors,' and those from Hamlet, Richard III.,
and Macbeth. Of the recitations I think the
people prefer that from Othello, for the ladies
have often asked me to give them that ffrom
Othello (they like to htar about Desdemona),
but the gentlemeo «k fbr Act ftom Haaite^
•To be, or not to be?'
** My principal plaoe fbr giving porfomianow
is the Commeroial-TOftd, nearlanehonfie, bofr
the most theatrieally inclined neigfabimrliooA;
is the Walworth .road. The most money^I-efur
took at one time in the stxeeti was 4* in tl»
Widworth-road.
" The best receipts I oforHad mm got mm
pablic-houae near Briek-llme, fbr I took 1^
and I was alone. There was a * lead^ up tkw
for a friend, and I knew of it, md I had mf
hair curled and got myself decently habkadl^
I was there for about three orftmr houn, mk
in the intervals between the dances Tiised W
recite. There were girls there, and they toak.
my part, though they made me diink so mvdl
I was nearly tipsy.
** The only theatrical costume I put on is
moustachios, and I take a stick to use as a
sword. I put myself into attitudes, and look
as fierce as I can. When first the peeple-
came to hear me they laughed, and then thcj
became quiet ; and sometimes you oould bfl«-
a pin drop.
" When I am at work rcgolaiiy — that's wheft
I am in voice and will — I make about l<k
a-wcek, if there's not much rain. If it's wH^
people don't go to the public-houses, and they
arc my best paj-ing audiences. The least I
have ever taken in a week is about 6f.
'•There isn't many going about Londoa
reciting. It is a voiy rare class to be iboid;
I only know about four who live that way, woA
I have heard of the others from hearsay— not
that I have seen them myself.
** I'm very fond of music, and know most of
the opera. Thatoi^jan's playing something liy
Verdi ; I heanl it at the theatre at Dublin. I
amuse them sometimes in the kitchen at ny
lodgings by playing on a penny tin whistle. I
can do * Still, so gently,' frt)m ' La Sonnambubi'
nnd hompip(.*s, and jigs, and Scotch airs, as
well OS ' Cheer boys, cheer,' and * To the "West,'"
nnd many others. They get mo to play wheB
they want to dance, and they pay me for them.
They call me Shaksjieare by name."
Blind Readeb,
An intelligent man gave me the following'
account of his experience as a blind reader.
He was poorly dressed, but clean, and had nol
a vulgar look.
" My father died when I was ten years old^
and my mother in the coronation year, 1838.
I am now in my thirty-eighth year. I was a
clerk in various offices. I was not bom blind,
but lost my sight four years ago, in conse-
quence of aneiuism. I was a fortnight in the
Ophthalmic Hospital, and was an out-patient
for three months. I am a married mun, with
one child, and we did as well as wo could, boi
that was very biidly, until every bit of furni-
ture (and I had a house ftiU of good f^imituie
up to that time) went. At last I thought I
LONDON ZABOUB AND THE LONDON POOR.
109
: eom a Htlle bjr nacDiig m the street
society fbr tJie Indigent Blind gave me
ocpel of StL John, after ICr. Freer^s i«ys.
lie ptrioe being 8i. ; and a brother-in-luw
ied ne with the Gospel of St Luke,
cost Of. In Mr. Freer's syBtem the
IP alphabet leUen an not oiied, bat
are Taised characters, thirty.fbnr in nam-
eadiiding long and short voivela; and
charactera express sounds, and a sound
mnpziee a short salable. I learned to
\3j tliL« system in four lessons. I first
in public ia Momington-oreRcent For
rst fortnight or three weeks I took from
E. to 2a. Oc/. a-day-*one day I took 3«.
faeiptB than fell to something less than
ft-4sy, and have been gradually falling
rince. Since the 1st of January, this
I haven't averaged more thnn 2«. 0</.
k by my street rrading and writing. My
ams 3«. or 4*. a-week with her uocdle,
g with a * sweater' to a shirtinaker. I
nerer road anywhere but in Eiiston-
» and Momington-crescc-nt. On AVhit-
iqr I made 2s. O^^., nnd that, I assure
reckon real good holiday earnings ; and
L nntil I was hoarse with it. Once I
pd at Momingtonrrpscfflit, as closely as
d, just out of curiosity and to wile away
me, above 2000 persons, who passed and
«ed without giving mo a Imlfpi-nny. The
Qg peoplo are my hest frionds, most
3&y. I am tired of the streets; besides.
balf^tarved. There are now five or six
mm about London, who rend in the
a. We can read nothing but the Scrip-
. as ' blind printing/ — so it's sometimes
!— has only been used in the Scriptures,
tie also in the streets, as well as read.
Wedgwood's manifold writer. I write
! from Scripture. There was no teaching
Miy for this. I trace the letters from
lowledge of them when I could see. I
• I am the only blind man who writes in
nets."
I-EZEBCZSE EXHIBFTOB — ONE-ZXOOSD
Italian.
K an Italian, domiciled at Genoa, and I
very little French, only just enough to
T things — to got my life ^ith, yon know.
i is the most rirh to^-n of Piedmont,
is not the most jolic. Oh no ! no ! no !
. is the most beautiful, oh yes ! It is a
itreet of palaces. Ynu know Turin is
! tiie King of Sardinia, with the long
xohes, lives. Has Monsieiur been to
. ? No ! Ah, it is a great sight t Perhaps
ienr has seen Genoa? No! Ah you
a great pleasure to come. Genoa is
ich, but Turin is vezy beautlM. I pre-
irin.
was a soldier in my country. Oh, not an
r. I was in the 2nd battalion of the
ilaini nearljf the same as the Chasaenrs
de Vineennes in France. It is the first regi-
ment in Piethnont We had a green unifonn
with a roll collar, and a belt round one shoal>
der, and a short rifle. We had a feather one
side of our hats, which ore of felt Ah,
c'etait bien joli 9a I We use long bullets,
Mini4 ones. All the anny in my countzy are
imder four brothers, who are all generahs and
Ferdinando Mannora is the commander-in*
chief— the same that was in the Crimaft».
Neariy all my companions in the Bassolein
regiment wore from the TjroL Ah, they shoot
well ! They never miss. They always kilL
Sacri Dieu 1
** I was wounded at tiie batoille de Peseare,
against the Austrians. We gained the battle and
entered the town. The General Radetzky was
against us. He is a good general, but Fer-
dinando Marmora beat him. Ferdinando was
wounded by a boll in the cheek. It passed
from left to right He has the mark now..
Ah, he is a good general. I was wounded.
Pardon ! I cannot say if it was a bal de ca-
non or a bal de Aisil. I was on the ground
like one dead. I fell vnM\ my leg l)cnt behind
me, because they found me so. They teU me^
that as I foil I cried, * My God! my God!'
but tliat is not in my memory. After they had
finished the battle they took up the wounded..
Perhaps I was on tho ground twelve hours, but
I do not know exactly. I was picked up with
others ond taken to the hospital, and then
one day after my leg decomposed,, and it was
cut directly. AU the bone was fracass^, vaiiy
benucoup. I was in the hospital for forty days.
Ah ! it was terrible. To cut tlio nerves was
terrible. They correspond witli the head*
Ah, horrible I They gave me no chloroform.
Uien ! rien I No, nor any donnitore, as we
call it ill Italian, vou know, — something in a
glass to drink and make you sleep. Bien !
rien! K I had gone into the Hdpital des
Invalidcs, I sliould have had 20 sous a-day ;
but I wonld not, and now my pension is 12
sous a-day. I am paid tliat now ; whether I
am here or there, it is the same. My wife re-
ceives tlie 12 sous whilst I am here. I
shall not stop here long. The langue is too
difficult No, I shall not learn it, because at
the house where X lodge we speak Italian^
and in the streets I speak to no one.
*-' I have been to France, but there the
policemen were against me. They are bfites,
Uie policemen franvais. The gentlemen and
ladies all all good. Aa I walked in the streets
with my onitch, one would say, * Here, poor
fellow, are two sous ;' or, * Come with me and
have some wine.' They are good liearts there.
Whilst X was going to Paris I walk on my leg.
I also even now and then find good occasions
for mounting in a Toiture. I say to tliem,
* Monsieur, accord me the reUof of a ride ? ' and
they say, ' Yes, come, come.'
" In England no police interfere with me..
Here Uis good. If the police say to me • Go
on, go on,' Isay, « Pavdoot Monsieur/ aadmoio
150
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
away. I never ask any body for money. I
work in the streets, and do my gun exer.
cise, and then I leave it to the Bon Dieu to
make them give me something. I never ask.
'*I have been very unfortunate. I have a
tumour come under the arm where I rest on
my crutch. It is a tumour, as they call it in
Prance, but I do not know what it is named
in English. I went to the hospital of San
Bartolommeo and they cut it for me. Then
I have hurt my stomach, fh)m the force of
calling out the differing orders of command-
ing, whilst I am doing my gim exercises in
the streets. I was two montlis in my bed with
my arm and my stomach being bad. Some
days I cannot go out, I am so ill. I cannot
drmk beer, it is too hot for me, and gets to
my head, and it is bad for my stomach. I eat
Ash: that is good for the voice and the stomach.
Now I am better, and my side does not hurt me
when I cry out my commanding orders. If I
do it for along time it is painful.
** Ah, pauvro diablc! to stop two months in
my bed, June, August t The most beautiftil
months. It was ruin to mo.
*' After I have gone out for one day, I am
forced to rest for the next one. Monday I go
out, because I repose on the Sunday. Then
all goes well, I am strong in my voice. But I
cannot travaillcr two days following. It is not
my leg, that is strong. It is my stomach, and
the pains in my side from crying out my com-
mondcments. When I go out I make about
10s. a-week. Yes, it comes to that. It is
more than 1«. a-day.
'* I have a cold. I go out one day when it
blew from the north, and the next day I was
ill. It makes more cold here than at Genoa,
but at Tiuin in the winter it is more cold than
here. It is terrible, terrible. A servant brings
in a jug of water, and by-and-by it has ice on
its top. I find tlie bourgeois and not the
militaires give the most money. All the per-
sons who have voyog^ in France and Italy
will give me money — not much, you know, but
to me fortune, fortune I If I see a foreigner
in the crowd I speak to him. I know the face
of an Stronger tont-de-suite. Some say to me.
* Vous parlez Fran9ais ? ' ' Oui Monsieur.'
Others ask me, * You speak Italian? ' *Si, Signor.'
I never, when I go through my exercise, begin
by addressing the people. If I told them I
liad been a soldier in the army of Sardinia,
they would not understand me. Yes, some of
the words sound the same in French and
English, such as army and soldat, but I have
not the heart to beg. I have been soldier,
andil cannot take off my cap and beg. I
work for what they give me. They give me
money and I give Uiem my exercise. I some-
times have done my exercise before a great
crowd of people, and when it is done nobody
will give me money, and my heart sinks
within me. I stand there honteux. One
will then in pity throw a sou, but I cannot
pick it up, for I will not sell my pride for a
penny. If they hand it to me, then I take it,
and am pleased with their kindness. «Bat)I
have only one leg, and to throw Uie penny on
the ground is cruel, for I cannot bend down,
and it hurts my pride to put such money in
my pocket,
** The little children do not annt^ me in ths
streets, because I never do my exercise nntfl
they are at school. Between one and two I
never do my exercise, because the littla
(*hildren they are going to their lessons.
They never mock me in the streets, for X have
been unfortunate to lose my legs, and no-
body will mock a miserable inforton^. The
carts of the butchers and the bakers, whidi
carry the meat and the bread, and go so ilvt
in the streets, they frighten me when I do
my excn;ises. They neariy icrase the geni.
Tenez ! Yesterday I go to the chemm de ftr ds
Birmingham, to the open space before the
station, and then I do my exercise. All the
people come to their windows and ooOeet
about to see me. I walk about like a soldier
— but only on my one leg, you know, hoppin^^
and I do my exercise with my crutch for 117
gun. I stand very steady on one leg. Then
was a coachman of a cab, and he continued to
drive his horse at me, and say, * Go on 1 go on!'
There was no policeman, or he would not
have dared to do it, for the policemen protect
me. Le b^te ! I turn upon him, and ciy, ' B^!
take care, bete!' But he still say, ' Get on.' The
cheval come close to my back whilst I hop on
my one leg to avoid him. At lost I was voy
tired, and he cried out always, ' Get on ! ^et onf
So I cried out for help, and all the ladies nm
out from their houses and protect me. Thcj
said, * Poor fellow ! poor fellow ! ' and all gave me
a hsif sou. If I had hod five shillings in n^
pocket, I would have gone to a journal andxe-
ported that b£te, and had thefellow exposed; but
I bad not five shillings, so I could not go to a
journal.
** When I do my exercise, this what I do.
I first of all stand still on one leg, in the
position of a militaire, with my cratch
shouldered like a gun. That is how I so-
cumulate the persons. Then I have to do lU.
It makes me laugh, for I have to be the
general, the capitaines, the drums, the soldios,
and all. Pauvre diable ! I must live. It is
curious, and makes me laugh.
'* I first begin my exercises by doing the
drums. I beat my hands together, and moke
a noise like this — * hum, hum ! hum, hum,
hum! hum, hum! hum, hum! hu-n-u-m!'
and then the drums go away and I do them
in the distance. You see I am the dmmmen
then. Next I become the army, and make A
noise with my foot, resembling soldiers on «
march, and I go from side to side to iTni^^ft
an army marching. Then I become the trum-
peters, but instead of doing the trumpets I
whistle their music, and Uie sound comes
nearer and nearer, and gets louder and louder,
and then gradually dies away in the distance^
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
157
M if a bfttaillon was marching in front of its
«neral. I make a stamping with my foot,
£ke men marching past. After that I become
the officiers, the capitaines and the lieutenants,
•a if the general was passing before them,
■nd my crutch becomes my sword instead
oC my gon. Then I draw it from my side,
and present it with the handle pointed to my
loeast. Then I become the general, and I
gives this order : * Separate bataillons three
steps behind — un, deux, trois !' and I instantly
torn to the army again and give three hops
to the side, so that the general may walk
vp and down before me and see how the
■oldiers are looking. Then I in turn become
the offider who gives the commands, and the
nildicrs who execute them. It hurts my
mice when I cry out these commands. They
nasi be very loud, or all the army would not
hear them. I can be heard a long way off
when I call them out. I begin with * Portez
AE-B-R-MES!' that is, * Garry arms,' in
En^and. Then I lift my crutch up on my
left side and hold it there. Then comes
•Pbsbxkt AR.B-RMES!' and theni hold
the gun — ^my crutch, you know — in front
of me, straight up. The next is, * Repose
IB-B-EMES !' and I put to my hip, with the
bBTsl leaning forwards. When I say, barrel,
ii^ only my crutch, you understand. Then I
diOQt, *■ Un, deux, trois ! Ground AR-R-RMS !'
■nd let the top of my crutch slide on to the
road, ttkd I stamp with my toes to resemble
the noiae. Aiten^-ards I give the command,
• PoBXU AB-R-IIMES ." and then I carry my
anna again in my left hand, and slap my
other haind hard down by my right side, like
a Teritahle soldier, and stand upright in posi-
tioiL Whilst I am so I shout, * Separate
va COLUMNS ! Un, deux, TR-R-ROIS !'
md instantly I hop on my one leg three times
backwards, so as to let the general once more
walk down the ranks and inspect the men.
As soon as he is supposed to be near to me, I
ikoat * Present AR-R-RMES ! ' and then I
hold my gun — the crutch, you comprehend —
in fh>nt of me. Then, as soon as the general
is supposed to have passed, I shout out, ^ Re
fosi AB-B-RMES! ' and I let the crutch slant
from the right hip, waiting imtil I cry
agiin * Ground AR-R.R-RMS! un, deux,
TB-B-BOISl' and then down slides the
crateh to the ground.
** Next I do the other part of the review.
I do the firing now, only, you comprehend,
I don't fire, but only imitate it with my crutch.
I call out * Ground AR.R-RMS ! ' and let the
top of my crutch fall to the earth. After
that X shout, * Load AR-R-RMS ! un, deux,
TB-B-ROIS ! ' and I pretend to take a car-
traohe from my side, and bite off the end,
ttd dip it down the barrel of my crutch.
Kext I give the command, * Draw RAM-
BODS! UH, deux, TR-R-ROIS ! ' and then I
b^pn to ram the cartridge home to the breech
of the barreL Afterwards I give the com-
mand, * Cock AR-R-RMS !' and then I pretend
to take a percussion cap from my side-pocket,
and I place it on the nipple and draw back
the hammer. Afterwards I shout, * Point
AR-R-RMS ! ' and I pretend to take aim.
Next I shout, ' Recover AR-R-RMS ! ' that
is, to hold the gim up in the air, and not to
fire. Then I give orders, such as * Point to
THE LEFT,* or * Point to the right,' and which-
ever way it is, I have to twist myself round
on my one leg, and take an aim that way.
Then I give myself the order to *FIRE !'
and I imitate it by a loud shout, and then
rattling my tongue as if the whole line was
firing. As quickly as I can call out I shout,
* Recover AR-R-RMS ! ' and I put up my
gun before me to resist with my bayonet any
charge that may be made. Then I shout out,
* Draw up the ranks and receive the
CAVALRY!' and then I work myself along
on my one foot, but not by hopping; and
there I am waiting for the enemy's horse, and
ready to receive them. Often, after I have
fired, I call out « CHAR-R-RGE I ' and then
I hop forwards as fast as I can, as if I was
rushing down upon the enemy, like this. Ah !
I was nearly charging through your window ;
I only stopped in time, or I should have
broken the squares in reality. Such a victory
would have cost me too dear. After I have
charged the enemy and put them to fiight,
then I draw myself up again, and give the
order to * Form COLUMNS!' And next I
* Carry AR-R-RMS,' and then * Present
AR-R-RMS.' and finish by * GROUNDING
AR-R-RMS; UN, DEUX, TR-R-ROIS.'
*• Oh, I have forgotten one part. I do it
after the charging. When I have returned
from putting the enemy to flight, I become
the general calling his troops together. I
shout, * AR-R-RMS on the SHOULDER!'
and then I become the soldier, and let my
gun rest on my shoulder, the same as when
I am marching. Then I shout, » MARCH ! '
and I hop round on my poor leg, for I cannot
march, you comprehend, and I suppose my-
self to be defiling before the general. Next
comes the order * Halt ! ' and I stop still.
" It does not fatigue me to hop about on one
leg. It is strong as iron. It is never fatigued.
I have walked mUes on it with my crutch.
It only hurts my chest to holloa out the com-
mands, for if I do not do it with all my force
it is not heard far off. Besides, I am supposed
to bo ordering an army, and you must shout
out to be heard by all Uie men ; and although
I am the only one, to be sure, still I wish to
make the audience believe I am an army.
" One day I was up where there is the
Palace of the Regiua, by the park, with the
trees — a very pretty spot, with a park comer,
you know. I was there, and I go by a street
where the man marks the omnibus which
pass, and I go down a short street, and I come
to a large place where I do my exercises. A
gentleman say to me, * Come, my friend,' and
108
LONBOK LABOZm AND THE ZOVBOV 900M.
I go into hifl honse, and he give me some
bremd, and some meat, and some beer, and a
shilling, and I do my exercises for him.
That is tlie only house whoro I iras called to
perform inside. He spoke Italian, and Frtmch,
and Knglish, so that I not know which couiitr>'
ho belongs to. Another day I was doing my
exercises and some little children called to
their mamma, * Oh, look ! look ! come here !
the soldier! the soldier!' and the dame said
to me, * Come hero and peiibim to my little
boys ;' and she guve me sixpence. Those are
my fortunes, for to-day I may take two or three
shillinf^s, und to-morrow notliing hut a few
miseraiile sous; or perhaps 1 am ill in my
stomach with shouting, and I cunuot come
out to work for my living.
** When it is cold it makes tlio end of my
leg, where it's cut otT, bepn to treinhle, and
then it almost shakes mo with iu shivering,
and I am forced to go homi.s lor it is painl'ul.
** I liave been about fourteen months. They
wanted 4«. to bring me from Ihndogne to
Ijiindon : but I luul no money, so at the bureau
oHire they trave me u Ticket for nothing. Then
I came st might to l>(indon. When 1 came to
London 1 roulila't si>uak Kn^lish, and X knew
no one ; had no money, and didji't kmiw where;
to lodge. That is hard — bien dur. I bought
some bread nnd cat it, and then in the even-
ing I met im 1 taliun. who plays on tho organ,
you know ; and lie said, * Come with me ;* and
he took me to his lodgings, and there I found
Italians and Frenchmen, and I was hapjty.
I began tu work the next day at my ex-
ercises.
"One day I was in the quarter of tho
palaces, by the pork, you know, and I began
my exercises. I could not speak English,
and a polireman came to me and said, * Oo
on ! • Whafs that ? 1 tlioujrht. He said, ' Go
on!' again, and I couhin't comprehend, and
asked him, * Parlate Itahano?' and he keiit on
Ba>ing, * Go on ! • This is drolo, I thought ; so
I said, * Vous parlez Franyais?' ond he still
said, * Oo on : ' What he meant I couldn't
malxe out, for I didn't know English, and I
Imd only hecu here a week. I Uiought hi?
vanted to see my exon-ises, so I bcjran, ' Tortez
ur-r-r-nies I' nnd h(r still said, ' Go rm !' Then
I laughed, and nuuh- some signs to follow liini.
Oh, 1 thou^lit, it is 8<»me one else who wants
to see my exvrcisi's ; und I followed him, en-
chanted with my good fortune. ]3ut, alas!
he took me ti) n police office. There I had an
interpreter, ami I was told I must not do my
exercises in tin; street. When I told them 1
was a st.ldier in the army of the ally of
England, and that I had been wounded in
battle, and lost my leg fighting for my countr\-,
they let me go; nnd sint-e tho policemen are
very kind to me, and always say, * Go on,' ^ith
much politeness. I told the magistrate in
Italian, * Uow can England, so rich and so
powerfid, object to a pauvre diable like me
earning a sou, by tdiowing the exfiraaea of
the army of its ally r ThemagistntolMighadi
and so did the peiople, and I said, * Good d^f/
and made my reverence and left. I have
never been in a prison. Oh, no! nol no!
no ! no ! What harm could I do ? 1 hew
not tlio power to be a criminal, and I bate
the heart to be an honest man, and live kj
my exercises.
*' I have travelled in the coimliy. I want
to Cheltenham and Bristol. I walked voy
little of the way. I did my exercises at am
l)la4ro, and then I got enongh to go to another
town. Ah, it is beautiful countiy out there.
I went to Bristol I made 7«. in two diqii
thert!. But I dont like the coimtxy. It does
not suit me. I prefer London.
" I on«j tlay did my exercises by — what do
you call it? where the jteople go np — high,
high — no, not St. Paul's — no, by a bridoe,
where tliero is an open space. Yes, UM
monnmeut of Kelson ; and then, O ! what t
(Towd ! To tho right and the left, and to the
front and behind, an immense crowd to Me
my exercises. I maile a good deal of moaej
that day. A great deal. Tho most that I
ever did.
**I make about St. a-weck regnlariy; I
make more than that some weeks, but I ttm
don't go out for a week, because in the nin )
nobody will come to see my exercises. Some
weeks I malce l*^., but others not St. But I
must moke H«. to be able to pay for lodgings,
and food, and washing, and clothes, and in
my shoe ; fiv I only want one. I give 3^
a-day for my lodgings ; but then we bare e
kitchen, and a Are in it, where we go and Bt
There are a great many paysana there, «
great many boys, where I lodge, and thatgim
me pain to see them ; for tliey have been
brought over from their country, and here
they arc miserable, and cannot S])cak a wad
of English, and ore mmle to work i\yt thar
master, who takes the money. Oh 1 it's make
me much pain.
•• I cannot say if there are any otliers who
do their exercises in the streets ; but I hare
never seen any. I am, I think, the only
stranger who d<ies his exercises. It was mr
own idea. I did it in France whilst I wes
travelling; but it was only once or twice, iiv
it WAS defoudu to do it; and the policemao
are very severe. lis sont betes, les policemen
on J-'rance. The gentlemons and ladies veiy
good heart, ond give a poor diable des sous, or
otfer wine to pauvre diable qui a i>erdu la
jamhe en comhnttant pom* sapatrie; maiales
policemen sont bdtes. Ah, bdics! so bdtee I
can't tell you."
IL— STREET MUSICIANS.
CoNCERNiKa street mosioians, they are of
multifarious classes. As a general rule, they
may almost be divided into the tolerabb and
the intoleiableperfonnciB, some of them trust-
ZOfTDOir LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOS,
lot
iietr Bkin in muric for the reward for
ertions, others only making a noUe^ so
ttever money they obtain is given th<*m
as an inducement for them to depart.
•11-known engraving by Hogarth, of
raged mnsician," is an illnstraiion of
secntirms inflicted in olden times by
58 of street performers; and in the
ions by modem caricaturists we liave
oerous proofs, that up to the present
F! nuifiance has not abated. Indeed,
' these people carry with them musical
ents, merely as a means of avoiding the
of the Mendicity Society, or in some
e!) as a signal of their coming to the
in the neighbourhood, who are in the
giving ihem a small weekly pension.
' are a more umnerous class than any
f the street performers I have yet
:th. Tlie musicians are estimated at
id the ballad singers at 250.
treet musicians are of two kinds, the
ind the bHnd. The former obtain
jney by the agreeableness of their per-
c, and the latter, in pity for their
1 rather than admiration of their har-
Tbe blind street musicians, it must
esscd, belong generally to the rudest
^ performers. Music is not used by
, a means of pleasing, but rather as a
' soliciting attention. Such individuals
wn in the *• profession ** by the name of
men ;" they have their regular rounds
£, and particular houses at which to
eeitain days of the week, and from
fliey generally obtain a "small trifle."
«n, however, a most pecuhar class of
tols. They are mostly well-known
»«» and many of them have been pcr-
in the streets of London for many
The>* are also remarkable for the reli-
st of their thoughts, and the compara-
oement of their tastes and feelings.
*• Old Sabah."
)f the most descning and peculiar of
eet musicians was an old lady who
upon a hurdy-gnrdy. She had been
be streets of London for upwards of
ars, and being blind, had had during
nod four guides, and worn out three
ents. Her cheerfulness, considering
"ation and precarious mode of life, was
linary. Her love of truth, and the
J simplicity of her nature, were almost
e. I^e the generality of blind people,
d a deep sense of rehgion, and her
for a woman in her station of life was
ing marvellous ; for, though living on
ae herself had, I was told, two or three
ensioners. 'MMien questioned on this
, she laughed the matter off as a jest,
I was assured of the truth of the fact
Lention to her guide was most marked,
ip of tea was given to her after her
day's rounds, she would be sure to turn to the
poor creature who led her about, and ask,
" You comfortable, Liza ? " or " Is your tea to
your liking, Liza ? "
When conveyed to Mr. Beard's establish-
ment to have her daguerreotype taken, she for
the first time in her life rode in a cab ; and
then her fear at being j^nlled " backwards " as
she termed it (for she sat with her back to the
horse), was almost painful. She felt about
for something to lay hold of, and did not ap-
pear comfortable until she had a firm grasp of
the pocket. After her alarm had in a mea-
sure subsided, she turned to her guide and
said, ^'We must put np wi^ those trials,
Liza.** In a short time, however, she began
to find the ride pleasant enough. " Very nice,
ain't it Liza?" she said ; " but I shouldn't like
to ride on them steamboats, they say they're
shocking dangerous ; and as for them railways,
I've heard tell therfr're dreadful; but these
cabs, Liza, is very nice." On the road she was
ctmtinually asking " liza " where they were,
and wondering at the rapidity at which they
travelled. ^'Aht'* she said, laughing, "if I
had one of these here cabs, my * rounds*
would soon be over." Whilst ascending the
high flight of stairs that led to the portrait-
rooms, she laughed at every proposal made to
her to rest " There's twice as many stairs ag
these to our church, ain't there, Liza f " she
replied when pressed. When the portrait was
finished she expressed a wish to feel it
The following is the history of her life, as
she herself related it, answering to the variety
of questions put to her on the subject : —
*'I was bom the 4th April, 1766 (it was
Good Friday that year), at a small chandler's
shop, facing the White Horse, Stuart's-rents,
Drury-lane. Father was a hatter, and mother
an artificial-flower maker and feather finisher.
When I was but a day old, the nurse took me
out of tho warm bed' and earried me to the
window, to show some people how like I was
to father. The cold flew to my eyes and I
caught inflammation in them. Owing to mother
being forced to be from home all day at her
work, I was put out to dry-nurse when I was
three weeks old. My eyes were then very bad,
by all accounts, and some neighbours told
the woman I was with, that Turner's eeiata
would do them good. She got some and put
it on my eyes, and when poor mother eame to
suckle me at her dinner-hour, my eyes was all
* a gore of blood.' From that time I never
see afterwards. She did it, poor woman, fbr
the best ; it was no fault of her^ and lias
sure I bears her no malice for it I stayed aft
home irith mother until I was thirteen, wfaea
I was put to the Blind-school, but I on^ kept
there nine months; they turned me oat m-
cause 1 was not clever with my hands, snd I
could not learn to spin or make sssb-lines;
my hands was ooker'd like. I had not been
used at home to do anjrthing for myself— not
erentoinssaByMUl KoOw wm ahmys oat
:.X1V,
160
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
at her work, so she could not learn me. and
no one else would, so that's how it was I was
turned out I then went hack to my mother,
and kept with her till her death. I well re-
memher that ; I heard her last. When she
died I was just sixteen year old. I was sent
to the Union — *Pancridge' Union it was —
and father with me (for he was ill at the time ).
He died too, and left me, in seven weeks after
mother. When they was both gone, I felt I
had lost my only friends, and that I was all
alone in the world and blind. But, take it
altogether, the world has been very good to me,
and I have much to thank God for and the
good woman I am with. I missed mother the
most, she was so kind to me ; there was no
one like her ; no, not even father. I was kept
in the Union until I was twenty ; the parish
paid for my learning the ' cymbal :' God bless
them for it, I say. A poor woman in the
workhouse first asked me to learn music ; she
said it would always be a bit of bread for me ;
I did as she told me, and I thank her to this
day for it. It took me just five months to
learn the — cymbal, if you please — the hurdy-
gurdy ain't it's right name. The first tune I
ever played was *God save the King,' the
Queen as is now ; then * Hariequin Hamlet,'
that took me a long time to get off; it was
three weeks before they put me on a new one.
I then learnt 'Moll Brook;' then I did the
* Turnpike-gate ' and * Patrick's day in the
morning : ' all of them I learnt In the Union. I
got a poor man to teach me the 'New-rigged
ship/ I soon learnt it, because it was an easy
tune. Two-and-forty years ago I played * The
Gal I left behind me.' A woman learnt it me ;
she flayed my cymbal and I listened, and so
got it. * Oh, Susannah ! ' I learnt myself by
hearing it on the horgan. I always try and
listen to a new tune when I am in the street,
and got it off if I can : it's my bread. I waited
to hear one to-day, quite a new one, but I
didn't like it, so I went on. 'Hasten to the
Wedding' is my favourite; I played it years
ago, and play it still. I like * Where have you
been all Uie night?' it's a Scotch tune. The
woman as persuaded me to learn the cymbal
took mo out of the Union with her ; I lived
with her, and she led me about the streets.
When she died I took her daughter for my
guide. She walked with me for more than
fiye-and-twenty year, and she might have been
with me to this day, but she took to drinking
and killed herself with it. She behaved very
bad to me at last, for as soon as we got a few
hal4>enoe she used to go into the public and
spend it all ; and many a time Tm sure she's
been too tipsy to take me home. One night I
remember she rolled into the road at Ken-
sington, and as near pulled me with her. We
was both locked up in the station-house, for
she couldn't stand for liquor, and I was
obligated to wait till she could lead me home.
It was very cruel of her to treat me so, but,
poor creature, she's gone, and I forgive her
I'm sure. I'd many guides arter her, bninose
of them was honest like Liza is : I dont think
Khe'd rob me of a farden. Would you, liza!
Yes, I've my reg'lar rounds, and I've kept to
'em for near upon fifty year. All the children
like to hear me coming along, for I alwayc
plays my cjmbal as I goes. At Kentish-towa
they calls me Mrs. Tuesday, and at Kensing-
ton I'm Mrs. Friday, and so on. At some
places they likes polkas, but at one house I
plays at in Kensington they always ask me for
' Haste to the Wedding.' No, the cymbal iant
very hard to play ; the only thing is, you mut
be very particular that the works is covered up^
or the halfpence is apt to drop in. King David,
they say, played on one of those here instru-
ments. We're very tired by night-time ; aint
we, Liza? but when I gets home the god
woman I lodges with has always a l»t cC
something for me to eat with my cup of tea.
Sh^'s a good soul, and keeps me tidy and eleam
I helps her all I can ; when I come in, I cairiet
her a pail of water up-stairs, and such-lika.
Many ladies as has known me since they wii
children allows me a trifle. One maiden la^f
near Brunswick-square has given me Bixpenea
a week for many a year, and another allowa
me eighteenpence a fortnight ; so that, one wij
and another, I am very comfortable, and I*i«
much to be thankful for."
It was during one of old Sarah's jonmeijB
that an accident occurred, which ultimatelj
deprived London of the well-known old huidy^
gurdy woman. In crossing Seymour-street,
she and her guide Liza were knocked dovm
by a cab, as it suddenly turned a comer. Thcf
were picked up and placed in the vehicle (Ui*
poor gxiide dead, and Sarah with her limbt
broken), and carried to the University Hoi^
tal. Old Sarah's description of that ride ia
more terrible and tragic than I can hope to
make out to you. The poor blind creature
was ignorant of the fate of her guide, aha
afterwards told us, and kept begging and
praying to Liza to speak to her as Uie vehida
conveyed them to the asylum. She shook
her, she said, and intreated her to say if she
was hurt, but not a word was spoken in answer,
and then she felt how terrible a privation WM
her blindness; and it was not until th^y
reached the hospital, and they were lifted fireia
the cab, that she knew, as she heard the people
whisper to one another, that her fkithftd
attendant was dead. In telling us this, the
good old soul forgot her own sufferings fortha
time, as she lay with both her legs brokea
beneath the hooped bed-clothes of the hospital
bed ; and when, after many long weeks, she left
the medical asylum, she was unable to continna
her playing on the hurdy-gurdy, her hand
being now needed for the crutch that wa*
requisite to bear her on her rounds.
The shock, however, had been too much for
the poor old creature's feeble nature to rally
against, and though she continued to hobbto
round to th e houses of the kind people who hai
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
101
■re allowed her a few penee per week,
ent limping along nmaicless tlurongh the
I for some months after she left the
tal, yet her little remaining strength at
I fikiled her, and she took to her bed in a
in Bell-court, Graj's-inn-lane, never to
ton it again.
** FaBM-YABD " PXJLTEIU
BT-LOOEmo man, half-blind, and wrapped
large, old, faded black-cotton great-coat,
the following statement, ha\'ing first
me some specimens of his art :—
imitate all the animals of the farm-yard
' fiddle : I imitate the bull, the calf, the
he cock, the hen when she's laid an egg,
eacock, and the ass. I have done this
t streets for nearly twelve years. I was
hi np as a musician at my own desire,
a young man (I am now 53) I used to
; to play at parties, doing middling imtil
^t failed me ; I then did the form-yard
e fiddle for a living. Though I had
heard of such a thing before, by con-
pTBctico I made myself perfect. I
d from nature, I never was in a farm-
a my life, but I went and listened to the
y, anywhere in town that I could meet
hem, and I then imitated them on my
ment. The Smithfield cattle gave me
ady for the bull and the calf. My
ck I got at the Belvidere- gardens in
{ton. The ass is common, and so is the
and them I studied anywhere. It took
month, not more, if so much, to acquire
Ithonght a sufficient skill in my under-
r, and then I started it in the streets.
I liked the very first time I tried it. I
■ay what animal I am going to give ; I
that to the judgment of the listeners.
eoold always tell what it was. I could
12s. a-week the year through. I play it
blic-houses as well as in the streets.
tches are all over London, and I don't
that one is better than another. Work-
lople are my best friends. Thursday
riday are my worst days ; Monday and
lay my best, when I reckon 2«. 6(2. a
ome taking. I am the only man who
he farm-yard."
Bund Performeb on thz Bells.
[X -looking blind man, with a cheerful
poorly but not squalidly dressed, gave
le subjoined narrative. He was led by
Dg, healthy -looking lad of 15, his step-
have been blind since within a month
r birth," ho said, **and have been 23
a street performer. My parents were
bnt they managed to have me taught
u I am 55 years old. I was one of a
rband in my youth, and could make my
^week at it. I didn't like the hand, for
if you are steady yourself yon can't get others
to be steady, and so no good can be done.
I next started a piano in the streets ; that was
23 years ago. I bought a chaise big enough
for an invalid, and having had the body re-
moved, my piano was fitted on the sprinn
and the axle-tree. I carried a seat, and comd
play the instrument either sitting or standing,
and so I travelled through London with it.
It did pretty well; in the summer I took
never less than 20t., and I have taken 40s. on
rare occasions, in a week ; but the small
takings in the winter would reduce my yearly
average to 15s. a-week at the utmost. I
played the piano, more or less, until within
these three or four years. I started the bells
that I play now, as near as I can recollect,
some 18 years ago. When I first played
them, I hfiui my 14 beUs arranged on a rail,
and tapped them with my two leather ham-
mers held in my hands in the usual way. I
thought next I could introduce some novelty
into the performance. The novelty I speak
of was to play the violin with the bells. 1
had hammers fixed on a rail, so as each bell
had its particular hammer; these hammers
were connected with cords to a pedal acting
with a spring te bring itself up, and so, by
playing Uie pedal with my feet, I had fUU
command of the bells, and made them ac-
company the violin, so that I could give any
tune almost with the power of a band. It
was always my delight in my leisure moments,
and is a good deal so still, to study improve-
ments such as I have described. The bells
and violin together brought me in about the
same as the piano. I played the violoncello
with my feet also, on a plan of my own, and
the violin in my hand. I had the violoncello
on a firame on the groimd, so arranged that I
could move the bow with my foot in harmony
with the violin in my hand. The last thing
I have introduced is the playing four ac-
cordions with my feet. The accordions are
fixed in a firame, and I make them accompany
the violin. Of all my plans, the piano, and
the bells and violin, did the best, and are the
best still for a standard. I can only average
12s. a-week, take the year through, which is
very little for two."
Bum) Femali 'Violin Pliteb.
I HAD the following narrative from a stout
blind woman, with a very grave and even
meditative look, fifty-six years old, dressed in
a clean cotton gown, the pattern of which was
almost washed out She was led by a very
fine dog (a Scotdi coUey, she described it), a
chain l^ing aflixed to the dog's leather coUar
A boy, poor and destitute, she said, bare-
footed, and wearing a greasy ragged jacket, with
his bare skin showing through the many rents,
accompanied her when I saw her. The boy
had been with her a month, she supporting
him. She said: —
loa
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON JtOOSU
*' I have been Vtlind twelve j^uu I was a
servant in my 3'outh, and in 18tl4 mamed a
joumeyman cabinet-maker. I vent blind
from an inflammation two years before my
hubbfliid died. We had Ave ehildren, all dead
now— the last died six years ago ; and at my
husband's death I was left almost destitute.
I used to sell a few laees in tha street, but
couldn't dear 2«. Oi. a-week by it. I had a
little he^ from the parish, but very rarely ;
and at last I could get nothing but an order
for the house. A neighbour— a tradeaman —
then taught me at his leisure to {day the violin,
but I'm not a great performer. I wish I was.
I began to piny in Uie streets five years ago.
I get halfpennies in charity, not for my musie.
Some days I pick up 2«., some days only M.,
and on wet days nothing. I've often had to
pledge my fiddle for 2«ir— I could ucvor get
more on it, and sometimes not that. When my
fiddle was in pledge, I used to sell matches
and laccs in tlie streets, and havo had to bor-
row l\d, to lay in a stock. I've sometimes
taken Id, in eight hours. My chief places,
when I've only the dog to lead inti, are Kegeut-
streot and Portland-place; mid, really, peo-
ple ore very kind and careful in guiding and
directing mc, — even the cabmen! may God
bless thorn!'
BuKi> Scotch Violoncsixo Plater.
A STOUT, hale -looking blind man, dressed very
decently in coloured clothes, and scrupuloubly
dean, gave me the following details : —
*"* I am one of the three blind Scotchmen
who go about Uie streets in company, playing
the 'violoncello, clarionet^ and tiuto. We arc
really Highlanders, and can all speak Gaelic ;
but a good many London Highlanders arc
Irish. I have been thirty yeoi-s in the streets of
London ; one of my mates has b«;en forty years,
—he's sixty-nine;— the other has been thirty
^ears. I became partially Idind, through on
inHommation, when I was fourteen, out I was
stone-bUnd when I was twenty-two. Before
I was totally blind I came to L(>ndon, travel-
ling up witli the liolp of my homines, guided
by a little boy. I settled in London, lindiug
it a big place, where a man could do well at
tlittt time, and I took a turn every now ami
then into the country. ^ I could make 11#. n-
week, winter and summer through, thuty
years ago, by playing in Uie streets ; now 1
can't molce 0». a-week, take winter and summer.
I met my two mates, who are both blind men,
— hotli came to England for the same reason
as I did, — in ray joimieyings in London ; and
at lost we agreed to go together, — that's
twenty years ago. AVe've been together, on
and off, ever since. Sometimes, one of us
will take a turn roimd the coast of Kent, and
another round the coast of Devon ; and then
join again in Londtm, or meet by accident.
We have always agi'eed very well, and never
fought. We, — I mean the streeubliud, —
tried to maioiain a buyiiig and tickrdab cl
our own; but wtt wese always too poor. W^
Uve in rooms. I doa*t know one Uind m»*
raeian who lives in a lodgiBg-houac. I aqnsetf *
know a doaen blind mea, bow perfbimiiig in
the streets of London; theat ace not all eob-
actly blind, but about as bad ; the most nm
stone-blind. The blind musicians are chiefly
married men. I don't know one who Uvea
with a woman liamarned. The loss of sigh&
changes a i&an. He doeant think of wom«^
and women don't think of him. We art of ft
religious turn, too, generally. I am a Roman
Catholic; but the other Seot4sh blind i
are Presbyterians. The Scotch in
are our good firienda, becaase tliey give us n
little sum altogether, perhape ; but the En-
glish working-people arc our main aupportt
it is by them we livt*, and I always found thea
kind and liberal,— the most liberal in the woild
as I know. Through Marylebone is our belt
round, and Saturday night our best time. Wft
play all tliree together. * Johnny Cope' k
our best-Uked time. I think the bhnd Scotch^
men don't come to play in London now. I
can remember many blijad Scotch musiciaBSa
or pipers, in London : tliey are all dead now 1
The trade's dead too, — it is so ! When we
tliought of forming the blind dub, theze waa
never moro tlian a dozen members. These
were two basket-makers, one mat-maker, four
violin-players, myself, and my two mates;
which was tlie nimibcr when it dropped for
want of funds ; that's now lifieen years ago.
We were to pay 1«. a-inonth ; and sick mem.
bers Wiro to have 5<. a-week, when they'd
paid two years. Our otlier rules were the
same as otlier clubs, I believe. The blind
musicians now in London are we three ; C— ^
a Jew, who plays tlio violin; R — , on Ei^
lishman, who plan's tlie violin elegantly; W— ^
a harp player; T — > violin again; H — . vio-
lin (but he plays more in public-houses);
11 — , the flute; M — , bagpipes; C — , bag-^
pipes; K — , \iolin: that's sdl I know my^bL
There's a good many blind who play at the
sailors' dances, Wapping and Dcptlbrd way.
We seldom hire childrun to lead us in the
streets ; we have plenty of our own, generally
— I have five 1 Our wives ore generally wo-
inet; who have Uicir eyesight ; but some blind
men, — I know one couple, — marry blind
Bund Iqisii Fife^
Of the Irish Pipers, a well-dressed, middle-
aged man, of good appearance, wearing lar^
preen spectacles, led by a young girl, hia
daughter, gave me Uie following occoimt:—
" I was eleven years old when I lost zny
sight from cold, and I was brought up to the
miujical profession, and practised it several
years in Ireland, of which country I am ft
native. I was a man of private property,—
small property'— and only played occaaionally
LO}n>ON LABOUR AND TUB LONDON PQOM.
163
il die gentle-p«opIe*9 plaoes ; tnd then more
as a guest — yea, more indeed than profesaion-
afly. In 1838 I married, and began to give
ceneertB regnlariy ; I waa the peiformer, and
I played only on the union pipes at my con-
certs. I*m acknowledged to be the best per-
fonner in the world, even by my own craft, —
I what seems self-praise. The imion
are the old Irish pipes improved. In
ler times there was no chromatic scale;
DOW we have eight keys to the chanter, which
produce the chromatic scale as on the flute,
and so the pipes are improved in the melody*
nd more particularly in the harmony. We
have had ^e performers of old. I may men-
tion Caroll O'Daly, who flourished in the 15th
eentaiy, and was the composer of the air that
the Scotch want to steal from us, *]lobin
Adair,' which is * Alleen ma men,' or ' Ellen,
ny dear.' My concerts in Ireland answered
ivy well indeed, but the fimiino reduced me
10 much that I was fain to got to England
vith my family, wife and four children ; and
a this visit I have been disappointed, com-
pletely so. Now I'm reilucod to play in the
ftreetj, and make very little by it. I may
iverage 15jr. in the week in summer, and not
half tliat in winter. There are many of my
coantivmen now in England playing the pipes,
iNxt I don't know one respectable enrmgh to
lasoeiate with ; so 1 keep to myself, and so I
eamiot tell how many there are."
Thi EKGi^n Street Bands.
CoKCEBXiHG these, a respectable man gave
me the following details : —
**I was brought up to the musical pro-
fesskm. and have been a street-porf«)rmer 'i'i.
jears, and I'm now only 20. I sang and
pUjed the guitar in the streets ^^-ith my
mother when I was four years old. AVe were
greatly patr<:»nised by the nobility at that time.
It was a good business when I was a child,
■i younger brotlier and I would gn out into
the streets for a few hours of an evening, from
fiteto eiglit. and make 75. or bs. the two of
OS. Ours w^as, and in, the highest class of
itreet music. For the last ten years I have
been a member of a street band. Our band is
now four in number. I have been in buiiils
of eight, aud in some composed of as many as
W; but a small band answers best f<ir regu-
larity. With eight in the band it's not easy to
^35. a^picce on a fine day, and piny all day,
v^ I consider that there are l(M)i) musicians
Jww performing in the streets of London ; and
•s very few play singly, l(h)0 perfonnere. not
Wioning pfu-sons who play with niggers or
STuh-like, will give not qiute 2.00 street bands.
Four in number is a fair average for a street
^d: but I think the greater number of
band'i have more than four in them. All the
better sort of these bands play at concerts,
Wis, parties, processions, and water excur-
toi, as well as in the streets. The cUss of
men in the atreet hands is, very generally,
those who can't read music, but play by ear ;
and their being unable to read musio pre-
vents their obtaining employment in theatres,
or places where a musical education is
neoeasary ; and yet numbers of atreet mosi*
cians (playing by ear) are better instru-
mentalists than many educated musicians in
the theatres. I only know a few who have
left other businesses to become musioians.
The great minority— lO-aOtlw of us, I should
Bay — have been brought regularly up to be
street-performers. Children now are taught
very early, and seldom leave the profession
for any other business. Every year the street
musicians increase. The better sort are, I.
think, pnident men, and struggle hard for »•
decent hving. All the street-performers of ■
wind instruments are short-lived. Wind per-
formers drink more, too, than the others.
They must have then: mouths wet, and they
need aome stimulant or restorative after
blowing an hour in the streets. There ore
now twice as many wind as stiinged instru-
ments played in the streets ; fifteen or sixteen
yours ago there used to be more stringed
instruments. Witliin that time new wind
instniments have been used in the streets.
Cornopeans, or cornel- ^-pistons, came into
vogue about fourteen years ago ; opheicleides
about ten years ago (I'm speaking of the
streets) ; and saxhorns about two years since.
The cornopean has now quite superseded the
bugle. The worst i)art of tlic street perfor-
mers, in point of clioracter, are those who
play l>efore or in public-houses. They drink
a great deal, but I never heard of them being
charged with dishonesty. In fact, I believe
there's no honcster set of men breathing than
street mufiicians. The better class of musi-
cians are nearly all married men, and they
generally dislike to teach their wives music ;
indeed, in my band, and in similar bands, wc
wouldn't employ a man who was teaching his-
wife music, that she might play in the streets,-
and so be exposed to every insult and eveiy
temptation, if she's young and pretty. Many
of the musicians' wives have to work very
hard ^-ith tlioir needles for tlie slop-shops, and
eani very little in such employ ; 3«. a-week is
reckoned good earnings, but it all helps. The
German bands injure oiu: trade much. They'll
play for half what we ask. They are very
mean, feed dirtily, and the best band of them,
whom I met at Dover, I know slept three in
a bed in a common lodging-liouse, one (»f the
verj' lowest. They now block us out of all the
country places to which we used to go in the
summer. The German bands have now pos-
session of the whole coast of Kent and Sussex,
and wherever there are watering-places. I
dont know anything about their morals, ex-
cepting that they don't drink. An English
street-pi'rformer in a good and respt^ctable
band will now average 25*. a-week the year
through. Fifteen years ago he could have
104
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
made H/. a-week« Inferior performers make
from 12«. to 15«. a-week. I consider RegenU
RtroL't nnd such plaooB our Lest pitches. Our
principal patrons in the parties' line are
tradesmen and professional men, such as
attorneys : 10«. a-night is our regular charge."
The Gebmak Stueet Bands.
Next come the German Bands. I had the
following statement from a young flaxen-
haired and fresh -coloured German, ivho
spoke English verj' fairly : —
** I am German, and have been six year in
zis countn*. I was neariy fourteen when I
come. I come fh)m Oberl'eld, eighteen miles
from Hanover. I come because I would like
to see how it was here. I heard zat London
was a goot ])lare for foreign music. London
is as goot a place as I expect to And him.
There was otlier six come over with me, boys
and men. We come to Hull, and play in ze
countiy aKtut half a year; we do middling.
And zen we come to I/ondon. I didn't moke
money at first when I come, I had much to
leam ; but ze band, oh ! it did welL "VVe was
seven. I play ze clarionet, and so did two
others ; two jday French horns, one ze tram-
bone, and one ze saxhorn. Sometime we
make 7t. or bs. a-piece in a-day now, but tlic
business is not so goot. I reckon Ot. a-day is
goot now. We never play ut fairs, nor for
cara\'ans. We play at private ]>arties or public
ball-rooms, and are paid so much a dance—
sixpence a dance for ze seven of us. If zare
is many dances, it is goot ; if not, it is bad.
We play sheaper zan ze Knglish, and we don't
spent so much. Ze English players insult us,
but we don't care about that. Zcy abuse us
for playing sheap. I don't know what zoir
tenus for dances are. I have saved money in
zis country, but very little of it. I wont to
save enough to take me back to Hanover. We
all live togeder, ze seven of us. We have three
rooms to sleep in, and one to eat in. We ore
all single men, but onu ; and his wife, a Ger-
man woman, hves wis us, and cooks for us.
She and her husband have a bedroom to
themselves. Anysing does for us to eat. We "
all join in housekeeping and lodging, and pay '
ahke. Our lodging cost^i 2s. a-week each, I
our board costs us about lft«. a-week each ;
sometime rather less. But zat include beer ;
and ze London beer is very goot, and some- '
time wo drink a goot deal of it. We drink
very little gin, but we live ver}- well, and have I
goot meals every day. We i)lay in ze streets, '
and I zink most places are alike to us. Ladies i
and gentlemen are our best friends ; ze work- ,
ing people give us vei^' Uttle. We play opera !
tunes chiefly. We don't associate with any I
Englishmen. Zare are three pubhc-houses \
kept by Germans, where we Germans meet.
Sugar-bakers and other trades are of ze num-
ber. There are now Ave German brass-bands,
with thirty-seven performers in zem, reckon-
ing our own, in London. Our band lives near
WhitechapeL I sink zare is one or two vaxan
German bands in ze countiy. I sink my
countiymen, some of them, save money ; b^
I have not saved much yet.**
Of the Baofife Platers.
A wEix-LOOKiNO young man, dressed in fUl
Highland costume, with modest mannen and
of slow speech, as if translating his wonb-
from the Gaelic before lie uttered them, gaf»
me these details : —
*' I am a native of Inverness, and a Gmit
My father was a soldier, and a player in Xtm
42nd. In my youth I was shepherd in tht
hills, until my father was tmable to support
me any longer. He had Od. a-day pension ftr
seventeen years' service, and had been tbiiee
wounded. He taught me and my brither the
pipes ; he was too ]>oor to have us taught any
trade, so we started on our own accounts. We
travelled up to London, had only our pipes to
depcud upon. We came in full Highliad
dress. The tartan is cheap there, and we mak
it up oursels. My dress as I sit here, without
my pipes, would cost about 4/. in Londoo.
Our mithcrs spin tlie tartan inlnvemess-shixe,
and the dress comes to maybe SOf., and is
better thou the London. My pipes cost me
three guineas new. It's between five and six
years since I flrst came to London, and I was
twenty-four last November. Wlien I started,
I thought of making a fortune in London;
tliere was such great talk of it in Inverness-
shire, as a fine place with plenty of money ; bml
when I came I found the difference. I was
rather a novelty at first, and did pretty well
I could make 1/. a- week then, but now I cant
make 2s. a-day. not even in summer. Then
are so many Irishmen going about LondoDi
and dressed as Scotch Highlanders, that I
really think I could do better as a piper even
ill Scotland. A Scotch family will sometimes
give me a shilling or two when they find out
I am a Scotchman. Chelsea is my best place,
where there are many Scotchmen. There art
now only five real Scotch Highlanders playing
tlie bagpipes in the streets of London, and
seven or eight Irishmen tliat I know of. The
Irishmen do better than I do, because they
have more face. We have our own rooms. I
pay 4j. a-week for an empty room, and have
my ain furniture. We are all married men,
and have no connexion with any other street
musicians. ' Tullochgorum,' ' Mone^'musk,'
The Campbells are comin',' and * Lord Mac-
donald's Keel,' are among the performanoes
best liked in Loudon. Tm very seldom insulted
in the streets, and then mostly by being called
an Irishman, which I don't like ; but I pass it
off just as well as I can."
SCOTCU PiPEB AND DaNCIKO-GiXIL.
** I WAS full corporal in the 03rd Southern
Highlanders, and I can get the best of chi^
Z^NDON LABOVR AND THE LONDON POOR,
105
from my eomnianding oflSoen. If I
get a good character I wouldn't be
to the colonel ; and wherever he and
' went, I was sure to be with th^n.
h I used to wear the colonel's livery,
id the full corporal's stripes on my
was first orderiy to Colond Sparkes
3rd. He belonged to Dublin, and
lie best colonel that ever belonged to
ent. After he died I was orderly to
Aynsley. This shows I must have
;ood man, and have a good character.
Aynsley was a good Mend to me, and
ra gave me my clothes, like his other
icrvants. The orderly's post is a good
i much sought after, for it exempts
n regimental duty. Colonel Aynsley
evere man on duty, but he was a good
after aU. If he wasn't to be a severe
wouldn't be able to discharge the post
0 discharge. Off duty be was as kind
)dy could be. There was no man he
ore than a dirty soldier. He wouldn't
a man for being drunk, not a quar-
nach as for dirty clothing. I was
1 the cleanest soldier in the regiment;
ras out in a shower of rain, I'd polish
brass and pipeclay my belt, to make
ean again. Besides, I was very supple
tve, and many's the time Colonel
has sent me on a message, and I have
sre and back, arid when I've met him
olded me for not having gone, for
h&£k so quick he thought I hadn't
list I was in the regiment I was at-
irith blindness; brought on, I think.
There was a deserter, that the po-
took up and brought to our barracks
Ion, where the Odrd was stationed in
[t was very wet weather, and he was
in without a stitch on him, in a pair
hes and a miserable shirt — that's all.
away two years, but he was always
ked. No deserters ever escape. We
kit up for this man in less than twenty
!. One gave him a kUt, another a coat,
^ye him the shoes off ray feet, and
nt to the regiment stores and got me
pair. Soldiers always help one an-
it's their duty to such a poor, miserable
as he was.
is deserter was tried by court-martial,
got thirty-one days in prison, and hard
He'd have had three months, only
3 himself up. He was so weak with
It, that the doctor wouldn't let him be
. He'd have had sixty lashes if he'd
rong. Ah ! sixty is nothing. I've seen
adred and fifty given. When this man
arched off to Warwick gaol I com-
i the escort, and it was a very severe
lin that day, for it kept on from six in
>ming till twelve at night. It was a
-one miles* march ; and wo started at
the morning, and arrived at Warwick
by four in the afternoon. The prisoner was
made to march the distance in the same clothes
as when he gave himself up. He had only
a shirt and waistcoat on his back, and that'
got so wet, I took off my greatcoat and gave
it to him to wear to warm him. They
wouldn't let him have the kit of clothes made
up for him by the regiment tiU he came
out of prison. From giving him my great-
coat I caught a severe cold. I stood up by a
public-house fire and dried my coat and lolt,
and the cold flew to the small of my back.
After we had delivered our prisoner at War-
wick we walked on to Coventry — that^s ten
miles more. We did thirty-one miles that day
in the rain. After we got back to barracks I
was clapped in hospital. I was there twenty-
one days. The doctor told me I shouldn't
leave it for twenty-eight days, but I left it in
twenty.one, for I didn't like to be in that same
place. My eyes got very blood-shot, and I
lost the sight of them. I was very much afraid
that I'd never see a sight with my eyes, and
I was most miserable. I used to be, too, all
of a tremble with a shiver of cold. I only
stopped in the regiment for thirty-one days
after I came out of hospital, and then I had
my discharge. I could just see a little. It
was my own fault that I had my discharge^
for I thought I could do better to cure myself
by going to the country doctors. The men
subscribed for me all the extra money of
their pay, — ^that's about 4<i. each man, — and it
made me up 10/. Wlien I told Colonel Ayns-
ley of this, says he, * Upon my word, M'Oregor,
I'm as proud of it as if I had 20,000/.' He
gave me a sovereign out of his own pocket.
Besides that, I had as many kilts given me as
have lasted mo up to this time. My boy is
wearing the last of 'em now.
" At Oxford I went to a doctor, and he did
me a deal of good ; for now I can read a book,
if the thread of it isn't too smalL I can read
the Prayer-book, or Bible, or newspaper, just
for four hours, and then I go dim.
*' I've served in India, and I was at the bat-
tles of Punjaub, 1848, and Moultan, 1849. Sir
Colin Campbell commanded us at both, and
says he, * Now, my brave 03rd, none of your
nonsense here, for it must be death and glory
here to-day ; ' and then Serjeant Cameron says,
* The men arc all right, Sir Colin, but they're
afr^d you won't bo in the midst of them ; '
and says ho, * Not in the midst of them ! I'll
be here in ten minutes.' Sir Colin will go
in anywhere ; he's as brave an officer as any
in the service. He's the first into the fight and
the last out of it.
" Although I had served ten years, and been
in two battles, yet I was not entitled to a
pension. You must serve twenty-one years to
be entitled to 1». 0\d. I left the 93rd in ISfla,
and since that time I've been vrandering about
the different parts of England and Scotland,
playing on the bagpipes. I take my daughter
I Maria about with me, and she dances idiilst
166
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
I play to her. I leave my wife and family
in town. I^•e been in London three weeks
this last time I visited it. I've been here plenty
of times before. I've done duty in Hyde-
Park before the 46th came here.
** 1 left the army just two years before the
war broke out, and I'd rather than twenty
thousand pounds I'd been in my liealth to
have gone to the Crimea, for I'd have had
more gloiy after that war than ever any Eng-
land was in. Directly I found the 03rd was
going out, I went twice to try and get back to
my old rei^iment ; but the doctor inspected me,
and said I wouldn't be fit for service again. I
was too old at the time, and my health wasn't
good, although I could stand the cold far
better than many htmdreds of them that were
out there, for I never wear no drawers, only
my kilt, and that very thin, for it's near worn.
Nothing at all gives me cold but the rain.
**The last time I was in London was in
May. My daughter dances the Highland fling
and the sword-dance called * Killim Callam.'
That's the right Highland air to the dance —
with two swords laid across each other. I
was a good hand at it before I got stiff. I've
done it before all the regiment We'd take
two swords from the officers and lay them
down when they've been newly ground. I've
gone within the eighth of an inch of them, and
never cut my shoe. Can you cut your shoes?
aye, and your toes, too, if you're not lithe.
My brother was the best dancer in the army :
80 the Duke of Argyle and his lady said. At
one of the prize meetings at Blair Athol, one
Tom Duff, who is as good a dancer as from
this to where he is, says he, ' There's ne'er a
man of the Maceregor clan can dance against
me to-dc^ ! ' and I, knowing my brother Tom
— ^he was killed at Inkermann in the 03rd — was
coming, says I, * Dont be sure of that, Tom
Duff, for Uiere's one come every inch of the
road here to-day to try it with you.' He began,
and he took an inch off his shoes, and my
brother ne\'cr cut himself at all ; and ho won
the prize.
**My little girl dances that dance. She
does it pretty, but I'd be rather doubtful
about letting her come near the swords, for
fear she'd be cutting herself, though I know
she could do it at a pinch, for she can be
dancing across two baccy-pipes without break-
ing them. When I'm in the streets, she al-
ways does it with two baccy-pipes. She con
dance reels, too, such as the Highland fling
and the reel Hoolow. They're the most cele-
brated.
•* Whenever I go about the country I leave
my wife and family in London, and go off with
my girl. I send Uiem up money every week,
according to what I earn. Eveiy farthing
that I can spare I always send up. 1 always,
when I'm travelling, make the first part of my
journey down to HiUl in Yorkshire. On my
road I always stop at garrison towns, and they
always behave very well to me. If theyVe a
penny they'll give it to me, either English,
Scotch, or Irish regiments ; or I'd as soon,
meet the 2:Jd Welsh FusUiers as any, for
they've all been out with me on service. At
Hull tliere is a large garrison, and I always
reckon on getting 3s. or 4«. from the barrackg.
When I'm travelling, it generally comes to
15«. a- week, and out of that I manage to seal
the wife 10s. and live on xM» myself. I hare
to walk all the way, for I wouldn't sit on a rail
or a cart for fear I should lose the little vil-
lages off tlic road. I con do better in maaj
of them than I can in many of the laiga
towns. I tell them I am an old soldier. I
don't go to the cottages, but to the gentle-
men's houses. Many of the gentlemen have
been in the army, and then they soon tall
whether I have been in service. Some haie
asked me tlie stations I have been at^ and
who commanded us; and then theyll saj,
' This man is true enough, and every word of
it is truth.'
" I\e been in Balmoral many a dozen of
times. Many a time I've passed l^ it when it
was an old ruin, and fit for nothing but tbo
ravens and the owla. Balmoral is the fomUi
oldest place in Scotland. It was built be£aio
any parts of Christianity came into the countij
at alL I've an old book that gives an acoooDt
of all the old buildings entirely, and a veiy old
book it is. Edinbro' Castle is the oldait
building, and then Stirling Castle, and yhm
Perth Castle, and then BiJmoraL I've booD
there twice since the Queen was there. If Td
see any of the old officers that I knew at IWl^
moral, I'd play then, and they might give ae
something. I went tliere more for cnrioa^
and I went to see the Queen come out Sia
was always very fond of the 03rd. Tbc/d
fight for her in any place, for there iant a mn
discharged after this war but they're providii
for.
'* I do pretty well in London, taking my 4i.
a-day, but out of that I must pay Ii. ^d, a- weak
lodging-money, for I can't go into aportmeDti,
for if I did it would be but poorly fumishcdL
for IVe no beds, or furniture, or linen.
** I can live in Scotland much cheaper than
here. I can give the children a good breakfitft
of oatmeal-porridge every morning, and that
will in seven weeks make them as fat as seven
years of tea and coffee will do here. Beaidei^
in Scotland, I can buy a very pretty littla
stand-up bedstead for 2s., which here would
come to 4s. I'm thinking of sending my familj
down to Scotland, and sending them the mon^
I earn in London. They'll have to walk to
Hull and then take iha boat They can get
to Aberdeen from there. We shall have to
work the money on the road.
*' When I go outworking with the little gLd»
I get out about nine in the summer and ten in
the winter. I can't work much more than four
hours a-day on the pipes, for the blowing
knocks me up and leaves me very weak. Ko^
it don't hurt my cheat, but I'll be just qoito
-**-
LONDON LABOVR AND THE LONDON POOR.
1C7
weak. Tbat*s ijrom my bad health. I've never
hid a day's health ever since I left the re(^-
ment. I have pains in my back and stitches
in the side. My girl can't danco witlioui luy
playing, so that when I give over slie must
gite over too. I sometimes go out v-ith two
•of my daughters. Lizzy don't dance, only
Mario. I never ox anybody for moufjy. Any-
body that don't like to give we never ax them.
•* I can't eat meat, for it won't rest <.>u my
stomach, and there's nothing I take that procs
BO well with me as soup. 1 live principally on
bread, for coffee or tea won't do for mo at nil.
If I coold get a bit of meat that Hike, sucli as
t small fowl, or the like of that, it would do
with me very well ; but either bacon or beef, or
the like of that, is too strong for me. I'm
obliged to be very careful entirely with what I
eat for I'm sick. A lady gave me a bottle of
fOOii old foreign port about three months ago,
ind I thought it did me more good than all
the meat in the world.
*' IVhen I'm in London I make about 4s.
ft^ay, and when I'm in the countiy about 155.
h-ntA. My old lady couldn't live when I
^Td if it wasn't for my boy, who goes out and
|eta about Is. a-day. Lord Paumure is veiy
good to bim, and gives him something when-
ever he meets lum. I wouldn't get such
good health if I stopped in London. Now
there's Bamet, only eleven miles from St.
Giles's, and yet I can get better health in Lon-
don than I can there, on account of it's being
CD lam^ ground and firesh air ooming into it
evHy minute.
"I never be a bit bad with the cold. It
aefcr makes me bad. Pve l)een in Canada
vHh the 93d in the winter. In the year '43
WM a Teiy fearful winter indeed, and we were
there, and the men didn't seem to suffer any-
ffamg from the cold, but were just as well as
IB any other climate or in England. They
wore the kilt and the same dress as in sum-
aer. Some of them wore the tartan trow.
een when they were not on duty or parade,
bat the most of them didn't — not one in a
dozen, for they looked upon it as like a woman.
There's nothing so good for the cold as cold
water. The men used to bathe their knees and
less in the cold water, and it would make them
ame for the time, but a minute or two after-
wards they were all right and sweating. I've
suiDy a time gone into the water up to my
aeck in the coldest du^-s of the year, and tlien
when I came out and dried myself, and put
on my clothes, I'd be sweating afterwards.
There can't be a better thing for keeping awny
the rheumatism. It's a fine thing for rheu-
matism and aches to rub the pait with cold
frosty water or snow. It makes it leave him
sod knocks the pains out of his limbs. Now,
in London, when my hands are so cold I can't
play on my pipes, I go to a pump and wash
them in the frosty water, and then diy them
ind rub them to;?other, and then they're as
^wm as ever. The more a man leans to Uie
fire the worse he is after. It was leaning to a
fire that gave me my illness.
'• The chanter of the pipes I play on has
boen in luy family very near 450 years. It's
tlic oldest in ^Scotland, and is a heir-loom in
our family, and they wouldn't part witli it for
any money. Many's a time the Museum in
Edinburgh has wanted me to give it to them,
but I won't give it to any one till I find my-
self near death, and tlien I'll obligate them to
keep it. Most likely my youngest son will
have it, for he's as steady as a man. You see,
the holes for the fingers is worn as big round
as sixpences, and they're quite sharp at the
edges. The ivory at the end is the same
original piece as when the pipe was made. It's
breaking and spUtting witli age, and so is tho
stick. I'll have my name and the age of tho
stick engraved on the solo of the ivoiy, and
then, if my boy seems neglectful of the chanter,
111 give it to the Museum at Edinburgh. I'll
have German silver rings put round the sticlc,
to keep it together, and then, with nice waxed
thread bound round it, it will lost for centuries
yet
*• This chanter was made by old William
McDonnoll, who's been dead these many hun-
dred years. He was one of the best pipe-
makers that's in all Scotland. There's a
brother of mine has a set of drones made by
him, and he wouldn't give them for any sit
of money. Everybody in Scotland knows
William McDonnall. Ask any lad, and he'll
tell you who was the best pipe-maker that ever
Uved in Scotland — aye, and ever will live.
There's many a farmer in Scotland would give
30/. for a set of pipes by old William McBonnall,
sooner than they'd give 30«. for a set of pipes
made now. This chanter has been in our
family ever since McDonnall made it. It's
been handed down fVom father to son from
tliat day to this. They always give it to tho
eldest. William McDonnall Uved to be 143
years old, and this is the last chanter he made.
A gentleman in London, who makes chanters,
once pave me a new one, merely for letting
him take a model of my old one, with the size
of the bore and the place for the holes. You
tell a good chanter hy tho tone, and some is
as sweet as a piano. My old chanter has got
rather too sharp by old age, and it's lost its
tone ; for when a stick gets too sharp a sound,
it's never no good. This chanter was played
by my family in the battles of Wallace and
Bruce, and at the battle of Bannockbum, and
oveiy place whenover any of the Macgregor
clan fought. These are tho traditions given
from family to family. I heard it IVom my
father, and now I tell my lads, and they know
it as well as I do myself. My groot grand-
father played on this stick when Charley
Stuart, the Pretender, came over to Scotland
from France, and he played on it before the
Prince himself, at Stirling and the Island of
Skye, and at Preston Pans and Culloden. It
was at Preston Pans that tlio clans were first
168
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
fonned, and conld be told by their tartans — the
Macgregors, and the Stuart, and the Macbeths,
and the Camerons, and all of them. I had
three brothers older than me, but I've got this
chanter, for I begged it of them. It's getting
too old to play on, and I'll have a copper box
made for it, and just cany it at my side, if
God is good to me, and gives me health to live
three weeks.
** About my best friends in London are the
French people, — they are the best I can meet,
they come next to the Highlanders. When I
meet a Highlander he will, if he's only just a
labouring man, give me a few coppers. A
Highlander will never close his eye upon me.
It's the Lowlander that is the worst to me.
They never takes no notice of me when I'm
passing: they'll smile and cast an eye as I
pass by. Many a time I'll say to them when they
pass, * Well, old chap, you don't like the half-
naked men, I know you don't!' and many
will say, * No, I dont!* I never play the
pipes when I go through the Lowlands, — I'd
as soon play poison to them. They never give
anything. It's the Lowlanders that get the
Scotch a bad name for being miserable, and
keeping their money, and using small provi-
sion. The^rYe a disgrace to their country.
^ The Highlander spends his money as free
ai a duke. If a man in the 93rd had a shil-
ling in his pocket, it was gone before he could
turn it twice. AU the Lowlanders would like
to be Highlanders if they could, and they learn
Gaelic, and then marry Highland lassies, so as
to become Highlanders. They have some
clever regiments composed out of the Low-
landers, but they have only three regiments
and the Highlanders have seven ; yet there's
nearly three to one more inhabitants in the
Lowlands. It's a strange thing, they'd sooner
take an Irishman into a Highland regiment
than a Lowlander. They owe them such a
spleen, they don't like them. Bruce was a
Lowlander, and he betrayed Wallace ; and the
Duke of Bucdeuch, who was a Lowlander,
betrayed Stuart.
** I never go playing at public-houses, for I
don't like such places. I am not a drinker,
for as much whisky as will fill a teaspoon will
lay me up for a day. If I take anything, it's a
sup of porter. I went once into a public-house,
and there was a woman drinking m it, and she
was drunk. It was the landlord told me to
come inside. She told mo to leave the house,
and I said the master told me to come : then
she took up one of these pewter pots and hit
me in the forehead. It was very sore for three
weeks afterwards, and made a hole. I
wouldn't prosecute her.
** My little boy that goes about is fourteen
years old, and he's as straight and well-formed
as if he was made of wax- work. He's the one
that shall have the chanter, if anybody does ;
but I'm rather doubtful about it, for he's not
steady enough, and I think I'll leave it to a
museum.
*< If Thad a good set of pipes, there's not
many going about the streets could play better ;
but my pifes are not in good order. I've got
three tunes for one that the Queen's piper
plays ; and I can pley in a far superior style,
for he plays in the military style. McKay,
the former piper to her msgesty, he was reck-
oned as good a player as there is in Seotland.
I knew him very wdl, and many and many a
time I've played with him. He was took
bad in the head and obliged to go back to
Scotland. He is in the Isle of Sl^e now. I
belong to Peterhead. If I had a good set of
pipes I wouldn't be much afraid of playing
with any of the pipers.
" In the country towns I would sometime!
be called into Highland gentlemen's housesi
to play to them, but never in London.
" I make all my reeds mjrself to put in the
stick. I make them of Spanish cane. It'i
the outer glazed bark of it. The nearer yon
go to the shiny part, the harder the reed is,
and the longer it lasts. In Scotland they use
the Spanish cane. I have seen a man, at one
time, who made a reed out of a piece of white
thorn, and it sounded as well as ever a reed I
saw sound ; but I never see a man who could
make them, only one.**
Anotheb Bagfife Pulyeh,
'< My father is a Highlander, and wu bom in
Argyllshire, and there, when he was 14 or
15, he enlisted for a piper into the 02nd.
They wear the national costume in that
regiment — the Campbell tartan. Father
married whilst he was in Scotland. We are
six in family now, and my big brother is 17,
and I'm getting on for 15 — a little better
than 14. Wo and another brother of 10^
all of us, go about the streets playing the bag-
pipes.
*^ Father served in India. It was after I
was bom (and so was my other brother of 10)
that the regiment was ordered over there..
Mother came up to England to see him off,
and she has stopped in London ever since.
Father lost a leg in the Punjaub war, and now
ho receives a pension of \s, a-day. Mother
had a very bad time of it whilst father was
away; I don't know the reason why, but
father didn't send her any money. All her
time was taken up looking after us at homei
so she couldn't do any work. The parish
allowed her some money. She used to go
for some food every week. I can remember
when wo were so hard up. We lived prin-
cipally on bread and potatoes. At last mother
told Jim he had better go out in the streets
and play the bagpipes, to see what he could
pick up. Father hod left some pipes behind
him, small ones, what he learnt to play upon.
Jim wasn't dressed up in the Highland cos-
tume as he is now. He did very well the first
time he went out; lie took obout 10#. or so.
>Vhen mother saw that she was very pleased,
"OLD SARAH," THE WELL-KNOWN HUKDY-GUKDY PLAYER.
[From a Dagutmotypt hy Bkaiid.]
LONDON LABOUR ANJ> THE LONDON POOR.
16U
«Dd thought she had the Bank of England
tambled into her lap. Jim continued going
out every day until father came home. After
father lost his leg he came home again. He
hu<l been absent about eighteen months. The
pipers always go into action with the xegi-
inent. TNlien they are going into the field
thev ploy in front of the regiment, bat when
the fighting begins they go to the side. He
never talks about his wound. I never heard
him talk about it beyond just what I've said ;
as to how they go into war and play the regi-
ment into the field. I never felt much cariosity
u> ask him about it, for I'm out all d^y long and
until about 10 o'clock at night, and whan I
get home I'm too tired to talk ; I never think
iboot asking him how he was wounded.
^^When father aame home from India he
brought 10/. with him. He didn't get his
pension not till he got his medal, and that
VBS a good while after — about a year after, I
should say. This war they gave the pension
directly they got home, but the other war they
didn't. Jim still continued pl^ying in the
streets. Then father made him a Highland
suit out of his old regimentals. He did better
then; indeed he one day brought home a
pound, and never less than five, or nine or ten,
shillings. Next, father made mo a suit, and
I used to go out with Jim and dance the fling
to his bagpipes. I usen't to take no carx>et
with me, but dance in the middle of the road.
I wear father's regimental-belt to this day,
only he cut it dowu smaller for me. Here's
his number at the end of it, 62, and the dftte,
1834 — so it's twenty-two years old, and it's
strong and good now, only it's been white
huff leather, and my father's blacked it We
didn't take much more money going out
together, but we took it quicker and got home
sooner. Besides, it was a help to mother to
get rid of me. We still took about lOs. a-day,
bat it got lesser and lesser after a time. It
was a couple of years after we come out that
it got lesser. People got stingier, or perhaps
they was accustomed to see us, and was
tired of the dancing. ^Vhilst I was doing the
dancing, father, when I got home of a night,
used to teach mo the bagpipes. It took me
more than twelve months to learn to pli^.
Now I'm reckoned a middling player.
'*When I could play I went out with my
big brother, and we played together ; we did
the times both together. No, I didn't do a
bass, or anything of that; we only played
loader when we was together, and so made
more noise, and so got more attention. In
the day-time we walked along the streets
playing. We did better the two playing
together than when I danced. Sometimes
gentlemen would tell ns to come to their
houses and play to 'em. We've often been to
Genoral Campbell's and played to him, whilst
he was at dinner sometimes, or sometimes
^SXet, We had dt. or half-a-soveieign, ac-
cording to the time we stopped there. There
was about six or seven gentlemen like this,
and we go to their houses and play for them.
We get from one shilling to five for each visit.
When we go inside and play to them it's
never less than 6t. They are all Scotch
gentlemen that we go to see, but we have
done it for one Englishman, but he's the only
one.
^When my little brother John was old
enough to go out, father made him a Highland
suit, and then he went out along with my big
brother and danced to his playing, and I
went out by myself. I did pretty well, but
not so well as when I was with Jim. We
neither did so well as when we were together,
but putting both our earnings together we
did better, for the two separated took more
than Uie two joined.
*< My little sister Mary has been out with
me for the last month. Father made her a
suit It's a boy's, and not a girl's costume,
and she goes along with me. Whilst I play,
she goes up to ladies and gentlemen and aski
for the money. They generally give her
something. She never says anyUiing, only
makes a bow and holds out her little hand.
It was fiiUier^s notion to send her out He
said, * She mi^ as well go out with one of
you as be stopping at home.' She stops out
as long as I do. She doesn't get tired, at
least she never tells me she is. I alw^ya
cany her home at night on my back. She is
eight years old, and very fond of me. I hoy
her cakes as we go along. We dine anywhere
we can. We have bread and cheese, and
sometimes bread and meat Besides, she's
veiy often called over and given something to
eat I've got regular houses where they
alwiqrs give me dinner. There's one in
£aton<place where the servants are Seoteh,
and at the Duke of Argyle's, out Kensinffton
way, and another at York-terrace, Camden-
town. It's generally firom Scotch servants I
get the food, except at the Duke's, and he
orders me a dinner whenever I come that
way. It ain't the Lowland Scotch give me
the food, only the Highland Scotch. High-
landers don't talk with a drawl, only Low-
landers. I can tell a Highlander in a minute.
I spMk a few words of Gaelic to him.
** So you see I never have occasion to buy
my dinner, unless Pm out at a place where I
am too far to go, but I generally work up to
my eating places.
** It's a^ut three years now since I've been
out playing the pipe. Jim and Johnny go
together, and I go with Mary. Between the
two we take about St. a-day, excepting on
Saturdays. I get home by ten, and have sup-
per and then go to bed; but Jim he some-
times doesn't come till very late, about one in
the morning. At night we generally go down
to the Haymarket, and play before the public-
houses. The ladies and gentlemen both give
us money. We pick up more at night-time , .
than in the day, Somerofttegizk then make ^
170
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOSL
the gentlemen give us money. They'll say,
* Give the little fellow a penny.* The highest
I ever had given me at one time was a Scotch
lady at a hotel in Jermyn-street, and she gave
me a sovereign. I've often had half-a-crown
give me in the Haymarket. It's always from
Scotch gentlemen. English have given me a
shilling, but never more ; and nearly aU we
take is from Scotch people. Jim says the
same thing, and I always found it so. ^
** I've had a whole mob round me listening.
Some of them will ask for this tune, and some
for that I play all Scotch tunes. *The
Campbells are coming' is the chief air they
like. Some ask for Uie *Loch Harbour no
more/ That's a sentimental air. ' The High-
land Fling/ that is very popular; * Money
Musk,' and the * Miss Drummond of Perth'
is another they like veiy much. Another
great favourite is * Maggie Lauder.' That's a
song. When I play in a gentleman's room I
don't put the drone on, but only play on the
chanter, or what you would call the flute part
of it. I cut off the drone, by putting the
finger in the tall pipe that stands up against
the shoulder, which we call the drone pipe.
The wind goes up there ; and if you stop it
up, it don't sound. A bagpipes has got five
pipes — the chanter, the drone pipe, the two
tenor pipes, and the blow-stick, through which
you send the wind into the bag, which is of
sheep-skin, covered with green baize. Eveiy
set of pipes is all alike. That's the true
Highland pipe. When I'm playing in the
streets I put the drone on, and I can lie
heard miles off. I've very often had a horse
shy at me. He won't pass me sometimes, or
if they do, they shy at me.
** I got the reeds which go inside my pipes,
and which make the noise, from the Duke of
Argyle's piper. He's a good friend to me, and
veiy fond of me. They're made of thin pieces
of split cane, and it's the wind going through
them that makes them jar and give the music.
Beforo I play, I have to wet them. They last
mo six or seven months, if I take care of
them. The Duke of Argyle's piper never
grumbles when I go for new ones. When I
fCo to liim he makes me play to him, to see
how I've got on with my music. He's a
splendid player, and plays from books. I
play by ear. His pipes are of ebony, and with
a sUver chanter or flute-pipe. He plays every
day to the Duke while he's at dmner. My
pipes are made out of cocoa-nut wood.
•*I know the Duke very well. He's very
kind to his clau. He's Campbell clan, and so
am I. He never spoke to me ; but he told
the servants to give me dinner eveiy time I
came that way. The sen'ants told me the
Duke had promised me my dinner every time
I como. When I touch my bonnet, he always
nods to me. He never gave me only a shil-
ling once, but always my dinner. That's better
for me.
'* I wear the regular Highland costume, but
I don't wear the Gimpbell plaid, only the
Stuart, because it's cheaper. My kilt atnt a
regular one, because it's too dear for me. In
a soldier's kilt it's reckoned there's thirty-two
yards ; mine has only got two and a half. My
philibeg ought by rights to be of badgers' skhi»
with a badger's head on the top, and with tassds
set in brass caps; but my philibeg is only
sheep-skin. The centre is made up to look like
the real one. Father makes all our clothes.
He makes the jackets, and the belts even,
down to the German silver buckles, with the
slide and the tip. He cuts them out of sheet
metal. He casts our buttons, too, in pewter.
They are square ones, you see, with a High-
lander on them. He mokes our shoes, too,
with the little buckle in front Mother knits
the stockings. They are mixed — ^red and blue
mixed. I wear out about three a-year. She
makes about twelve pairs a-year for us all.
We buy our tartan and our bonnets, but make
the pewter thistles at the side and the brooch
which fastens the scarf on one shoulder. A
suit of clothes lasts about twelve months, so
that father has to make four suits a-year for
us all ; that is for Jim, myself, Johnny, and
Mary. The shoes last, with repairing, twelve
months. There's twenty buttons on each
coat. Father has always ^ot something to do,
repairing our clothes. He's not able to go
out for his log, or clso he'd po out himself;
and he'd do well playing, for lie's a first-rate
piper, but not so good as the Duke's.
" We go about with our bare legs, and no
drawers on. I never feel cold of my legs;
only of my fingers, with playing. I never go
cold in the legs. None of the Hijirhlanders
ever wear drawers ; and none but the rich in
Scotland wear stock! ngi« and shoes, so that
their legs are altogether bare.
" When I'm marching through the streets,
and playing on the pipes, I alwaj-s carry my
head high up in the air, and throw my legs
out well. The boys will follow for miles —
some of them. The children vcrj- often lose
theirselves from followng mo such a way.
Even when I haven't my pipes with me the
boys will follow me in a mob. I've never
been ill-treated by boys, but a dnmken man,
often on a Saturday night, gives me a pii<h
or a knock. You see, thev'U bogin dancing
around mc, and then a mob will collect, and
that sets the police unto me ; so I always jday
a slow tune when drunken men come up, and
then they can't dance. The>''ll ask for a
quick tune, and as I won't play one, they'll
hit me or push me about. The police never
interfere unless a mob collects, and then
they are obliged, by their regulations, to in-
terfere.
" I never carried a dirk, or a sword, or any
thing of that. My brother used to have one
in his stocking; but one day he wjus called
up into a public house, where there was a lot
of French butlers and footmen, and they
would have him to play ; and when he had
LONDON LABOVB AND THE LONDON POOR.
171
ibr some time they began to pull him about,
and they broke his pipes and snapped the
chanter in two; so Jim pulled out Ms dirk,
and they got frightened. Tbey tried to take
it from him, but they oouldn't. He's a bold
fellow, and would do anything when he's in a
passion. He'd have stuck one of the French
fellows if he could. When father heard of it
he took the dirk away, for fear Jim should get
into mischief.
** When I've been playing the pipes for long
I get very thirsty. It's continually blowing
into the bag. I very seldom go and get any
beer ; only at dinner half-a-pint. I go to a pump
and have a drink of water. At first it made
me feel sick, blowing so much; but I very
soon got used to it. It always made me feel
very hungry, blowing all day long ; I could
eat every two or three hours. It makes your
eves very weak, from the strain on them.
^^Tien I tirst went out with my brother, play-
ing, I used to have to leave off every now and
then and have a rest, for it made my head
ache. The noise doesn't atfect the hearing,
nor has it Jim : but my father's quite deaf of
the left ear, where the drones goes. I never
have the drones on, only very seldom. When
I have them on I can't hear anything for a
few seconds after I leave off playing.
** Sometimes, of wet nights, 1 go into public-
houses and play. Some publicans won't let you,
for the instrument is almost too loud for a room.
If there's a Scotchman in the tap-room he'll
give me something. I do well when there's
good company. I only go there when it rains,
tor my usual stand of an evening is in the
Haymarket.
•* The bagpipes I play on were sent from
Edinburgh. Father wrote for them, and they
eost 30s. They are the cheapest made. There
are some sets go as high as a 100/. They are
mounted with gold and silver. The Duke of
Axgyle's piper must have paid 100/. for his,
I should say, for they are in silver. The bag
is covered with velvet and silk fringe. There's
eight notes in a long pipes. You can't play
them softly, and they must go their own
Ibrce.
<< I know all those pipers who regular goes
about pla3ring the pipes in London. There's
only four, with me and my brother — ^two men
and us two. Occasionally one may pass
through London, but they don't stop here
more than a day or two. I know lots of them
who are travelling about the country. There's
about twenty in aJl. I take about L')s. a- week,
and Jim does the same. That's clear of all
expenses, such as for dinner, and so on. We
sometimes take more, but it's very odd that
we seldom has a good week both of us to-
gether. If he has a good week, most likely
I don't. It comes, taking all the year round,
to about 15«. a-week each. We both of us
give whatever we may earn to father. We
never go out on a Sunday. Whenever I can
get home by eight o'clock I go to a night-
school, and I am getting on pretty well with
my reading and writing. Sometimes I don't
go to school for a week together. It's gene-
rally on the Wednesday and Thursday nightS'
that I can get to school, for they are the
worst nights for working in the streets. Our
best nights are Saturday and Monday, and
then I always take about 5«. Tuesday it comes
to about ds. ; but on Wednesday, and Thurs-
day, and Friday, it don't come to more than
2«. 6(/. ; that's if I am pretty lucky ; but some
nights I don't take above (Sd, ; and that's how
I put it down at 15s. a-week, taking the year
round. Father never says anything if I don't
take any money home, for he knows I've been
looking out for it : but if he thought I'd been
larking aud amusing myself, most likely he'd
be savage."
French Hurdy-oubdy Playeb, with
DAKciNa Children.
*' I FLAT on the same instrument as the Savoy-
ards play, only, you understand, you can have
good and bad instruments; and to have a
good one you must put the price. The
one I play on cost me 60 francs in Paris.
There arc many more handsome, but none
better. This is all that there is of the best.
The man who made it has been dead sixty
years. It is the time that makes the valu*
of it.
"My wife plays on the violin. She is a
veiy good player. I am her second husband.
She is an Italian by birth. She played on the
violin when she ^was with her first husband.
He used to accompany her on the organ, and
that produced a very fine effect.
" The hurdy-gurdy is like the violin — it im-
proves with age. My wife told me that she
once played on a very old violin, and the dif-
ference between that and her own was curious
for sound. She was playing, with her hus-
band accompanying her on the organ, near
the chftteau of an old marquis ; and when he
heard the sound of the violin he asked them
in. Then he said, * Here, try my violin,' and ,
handed her the old violin. My wife said that
when she touched it with the bow, she cried,
* Ah, how fine it is 1 ' It was the greatest en-
joyment she had known for years. You un-
derstand, the good violins all bridge where
the bridge is placed, but the new violins sink
there, and the tune is altered by it. They
call Uie violins that sink ' consumptive ' ones.
" I am D^on. The vineyard of Clos Naa-
gent is near to Djjon. You have heard of that
wine. Oh, yes, of course you have ! That
clos belongs to a young man of twenty-two,
and he could sell it for 2,600,000 fVancs if he
liked. At Dijon the botUes sell for 7 francs.
" My mother and father did not live happily
together. My father died when I had three
years, and then my mother, who had only
twenty years of age, married again, and you
know how it often happens, the second father
IW
IX>KJ)ON LABOUR J2W THE I/»iDON JPOOM.
does not \cm the flnl tamStj of his wife.
Some SercTuds passed through onr ▼illege,
md I was sold tethera. I was their slave for
ten yean. I leanit to play the hnidy^indy
with them. I osed to accompany an organ. I
picked out note for note with the oigan. When
I heard an air, too, whieh I liked, I used to go
to my room and follow the air ftem my memory
upon the inslrament. I went to Paria after-
wards.
■^Ton see I play on only one siring in my
hordy-gnnly. Those which the Savoyards play
have several strings, and that is what makes
them drone. The hordy-gurdy is the same as
the violin in principle. Yon see the wheel of
wood whieh I tnm with the handle is like its
how, for it grates on the string, and the keys
IiresR on the string like the fingers, and pro-
duce the notes. 1 used to play on a droning
liurdy-gimly at first, hnt one night I went
iiitt> a cafe at Paris, and the gentlemen there
cried out, * Ah ! the noise ! ' Tln'n I thought
to myself — I had fifteen years — ^if I play on
one string it will not produce so much noise
as on two. Then I removed one string, and
when I went the next night the gentlemen
said, * Ah, that is mnch better ! ' and that is
why I play on one string.
** I used to sing in Paris. I Icomt all that
of new in the style of romances, and I aecom-
?anied mjTjelf on my hurdy-gurdy. At Paris
met my wife. She was a wiJt^w then. 1
told her thot I would marry her when her
mourning was over, which lasted nine months.
I was not twenty then. I went about pla}ing
at the cafes, and put by money. But when we
went to be married, the priests would not
marry us unless we had our jmrentB' consents.
I did not know whether my mother was dead.
I hunted everywhere. As I could not find
out, I lived with my wife the same as if we
had been married. I am married to her now,
but my children were all bom before mar-
riage. At last I went to the Catholic priest at
Dover, and told him my life, and that I hod
four children, and wished to marry my wife,
and he consented to marry us if I would get
the consent of the priest of the place where I
had lived last. That was Calais, and I vrrute to
the priest there, and he gave his consent, and
now my children are legitimate. By the law
of France, a marriage mokes legitimate all the
children bom by the woman with whom you
are united. My children were present at my
marriage, and that produced a very droU
effect I have alwa^-s been faithful to my
wife, and she to me, thoiigh we were not mar-
ried.
** When my wife is well, she goes out with
me, and plays on the violin. It produces a
very good effect. She plays the seconds. But
she has so much to do at home with the
children, that she does not come out with
me much.
" My age is twcnty-five* and I have voyaged
for seventeen years. There are three months
sinee I eame in England. I was atCahnsand
at Boologne, and it is tbcie that I had the
idea to come to England. Many penons vh»
coonselled ns, udd us that in England va
should gain a great deal of money. Thai is
why I came. It took tfaeee weeks hefon I
conld get the penniaaion to be married, and
during that time I woiked at the diffomi
towns. I did pretty well at Dover; and aft«
that I went to llamygate, and I did very witt
there. Yes, I took a great deal of money on
the sands of a morning. I have been mar.
ried a month now — for I left Bamagate to g»
to be married. At Kamsgate they understood
my playing. Unless I have educattd people
to play to, I do not mako mnoh snceeas inih
my instrument. I play before a pnhhc-hooMv
or before a cottage, and they say, * Thai's sU
very well ;' but they do not know that to make
a hurdy-gurdy sound liko a violin requirai
great art and patience. Besides, I pUv sirs
fttmi operas, and they do not know the IuHjib
music. Now if I was alone with my hurdy-
gurdy, I should only gain a few penoe ; hot it
is by my children that I do pretty well.
" We came to London when the season wia
over in the country, and now we go e\iny-
wherc in tlie town. ' I cannot speak English ;
but I have my address in my pocket, if I low
myself. Je m^elanee dan* la viUe. To d^ I
went by a bi;? ])Arir. where there is a chiteaa
of the Queen. If I lose my way, I ahow my
u-ritten address, and they go on qieaking
English, and show me the way to go. I dont
understand the English, but I do the pointed
finger; and when I get near lumie, then I
recognise tlie quarter.
**My little girl •will havo six years next
February, and the little boy is only four yeaia
and a-half. She Ls a ver>' clever little giri»
and she notices everything. Before I «'as
married, she heard me speaking to my wife
about wiien we were to be mnrried ; and she'd
saVf constantly, * Ah, papa, wlien are you
going to be married to mamma ?' We had a
pudding on oiur marriage-day, and she liked it
so mnch that now she very often says, * Oh,
papa, I should like a pudding like that I had
when yon mamed mamma.' That is compro-
mising, but she doesn't know any Ixnter.
" It was luy little girl Kugonie wh<» taught
her brother Paul to dance. He liked it very
much ; but he is young yet, and heavy in his
movements; but she is prnceftil. and very
clever. At 1 Boulogne she was much beloved,
and the Enpclish ladies would give her packets
of sugar-plums and cokes. W'hen thoy dsnce,
they first of all polk togctlier, and then they
do the Varsovienne together, and after that
she does the Cachuca and the Mazurka alone.
I first of all taught my girl to do the Polka,
for in my time 1 liked the dance pretty well*
As soon as the girl had leomt il, slie taught
her brother. They like dancing above all*
when I encourage them, for I say. ' Now, my
children, dance well; and, above all, danoi
LaaDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOB.
178
r, and then I will bay you some
rhon, if they take a ikacy to any-
it is not too dear, I bny it for them,
. encoimgaa thenu Besides, when
* Papa, when shall we go to France,
By little brother who ia ont at nuzse ?'
aj, *When we bane earned enough
■o yon moat danee well, and, aboye all,
r, and when we hsve taken plenty of
6 will be att,' That eneooragea them,
like to aee me take plenty of money.
B mrl accompanies the mosic on the
I in the Cachnca. It is astonishing
ahe pUya thenu I have heard grown-
u in the cafes ehantants, who don't
a so wall as she docs. It is wonderAil
ong a child. Yoa will say she has
f atyle of playing on the hurdy-gordy,
novements ; but it is the same thing,
is as clever to other music Some-
len she has danced, ladies come up
her, and CTcn carry her oif into their
and I have to wait hours for her.
le sees that I gain money, sho has
yte courage. When the little girl has
icing with my Paul, then he, when
ncing alone, takes the plate and asks
7. He is very laughable, for he can
lay, * If you please, mis.ses.' Some-
e ladies begin tx) speak to him, he
es! jcs!' three or four times, and
runs up to me and says, ^ Papa, that
iks English ;' and then I have to say,
ik English.' But lie is contented if
I anybody speak French. Then he
to mc, and says, ' Papa, papa, Mon-
(oks French.'
little girl has embroidered trowsers
icoats. You won't believe it, but 1
ill that. The ends of the trowsers,
mings to her petticoats, her collarH
ves, all I have worked. I do it at
len Tve get home. The evenings are
I do a little, and at tlie end of the
»ecomes much. If I hod to buy that
cost too much. It was my \tife who
le to do it. She said the children
well dressed, and we have no money
hesc things. Then she taught me:
it seemed droll to me, and I was
. but thi-n I Uiou^'bt, I do it for my
d not for my pleasure, it is for my
; and now I am accustomed to do it.
Id fam.'v, too, tliot the childron are
ng about in the streets dn^ssed as
, but they have llannel round tlic
d then the jumping warms them,
iild tell me directly if they were cold,
ask them.
day I was married a very singular
ancc happened. I had bought my
>w dress, and she, poor thing, sat up
to make it. All night ! It cost me
ings, the stuff did. I hod a very bad
I she kept saying, * I shall be gay, but
poor fiiend, how wiU you look 7' My
coat was very old. I said, <I shall do as I
am ; ' but it made her sad that I bad no eoafe
to appear in style at our maniage. Our
landlord offered to knd me his eoat, hot he
was twice as stout as I am, and I looked wone
than in my own eoat. Just as we ware going
to start for the ehurch, a man came to the
house with a coat to sell — the same I have on
now. The landlord sent him to me. It i*
nearly new, and had not been on mora than
three or ibor times. He askod 12*., and I
offered 8«. ; at last ha took 9t. My wife, who
is very religious, said, * It is the good God
who sent that man, to reward us for alwaya
trying to get married.'
'* Since I have been here, my affiurs have
gone on pretty weU. I hare taken some days
2m., others G«., and even 8«. ; but then some
days rain has fallen, and on othen it hae
been wet under foot, and I have only taken 4f.
My general sum is &«. Qd. the day, or 6«.
Eveiy night when I get hom« I give my wife
what I have taken, and I say, * Here, my giri»
is dj. for to-morrow's food,' and then we put
the remainder on one side to save up. We
paj bs, a-week for our room, and that is dear,
for wo are there very bad .' very bad! for we
Kleep almost on the boards. It is lonely for
her to be by herself in the day, but she is near
her confinement, and she cannot go out.
** It makes me laugh, when I think of our
first coming to this country. She only wore-
linen caps, but I was obUged to buy her a
bonnet It wos a very good straw one, and
cost Is. It made her laugh to see everybody
wearing a bonnet.
** When I first got to London, I did not
know where to go to get lodgings. I speak
Italian very well, for my wife taught me. I
spoke to an Italian at Kamsgatc, and he told
nic to go to WooUich, and there I found an
Italian lodging-house. There the landlord
gave me a letter to a friend in London, and I
went and paid 2s. Od. in advance, and took
the room, and when we went there to Uve
I gave another 2s. bd., su as to pay the 5«.
in advance. It seenLs strange to us to have to
pay rent in advance — but it is a custom.
'* It costs me soinetlnnt; to clothe my chil-
dren. My girl has six different skirts, all of
silk, of ditlerent colours, gn;y, blue, red, and
yellow. They last the year. The artificial
ilowcrs on her head aro arranged by her
mamma. The boots cost the mostmone\'. She
has a pair ever}' month. Here they are ils.,
but in France they are dearer. It is about
the same for the little boy ; only as he does
not work so much as his sister, ho is not
dressed in so distinguished a style. He is
dean, but not so elegant, for we give the be.st
to the girl.
" My children are very good at home. Their
mother adores them, and lets them do as they
like. They are very good, indeed.
" On Sunday, they are dressed like other
children. In the mmuag we go to i
174
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOB.
then we go and walk a little, and see Tendon.
I have, as yet, made no Mends in London. I
know no French people. I have met some,
but ihey don't speak to me. We confine our-
selves to our family.
" When I am in the streets with good houses
in them, and see anybody looking at the win-
dows, then if I see them listening, I play
?ieces flrom the operas on my hnrdy-giu'dy.
do this between the dances. Those who
go to the opera and frequent the theatres, like
to hear distinguished music."
Poor Habp Platzb.
A POOB, feeble, half-witted looking man, with
the appearance of far greater age than he re-
presented himself, (a common case with the
very poor), told me of his sufferings in the
streets. He was wretchedly clad, his clotlies
being old, patched, and greasy. He is well-
known in London, being frequently seen with
a crowd of boys at his heels, who amuse
themselves in playing all kinds of tricks upon
him.
*' I play the harp in the streets," he said,
** and have done so for the last two years, and
should be very glad to gfive it up. My brother
lives with me; we're both bachelors, and he's
80 dreadfiil lame, he can do nothing. He is a
coach -body maker by business. I was bom
blind, and was brought up to music ; but my
sight was restored by Dr. Ware, the old gentle-
man in Bridge-street, BlaekfHars, when I was
nine years old, but it's a near sight now. I'm
forty-nine in August. When I was young I
taught the harp and the pianoforte, but that
very soon fell off, and I have been teaching
on or off these many years — ^I don't know how
many. I had three guineas a-quarter for
teaching the harp at one time, and two guineas
tor the piano. My brother and I have It. and
a loaf a-piece firom the parish, and the 2«. pays
the rent. Mine's not a bad trade now, but it's
bad in the streets. I've been torn to pieces ;
I'm torn to pieces every day I go out in the
streets, and I would be glad to get rid of the
streets for 6s. a- week. The streets are full of
ruffians. The boys are ruffians. The men in
the streets too are ruffians, and encourage the
boys. The police protect me as much as they
can. I should be killed evexy week but for
them ; they're very good people. I've known
poor women of the town drive the boys away
trom me, or try to drive them. It's terrible per-
secution I suffer— terrible i)ersecution. The
boys push me down and hurt me badly, and
my harp too. They yell and make noises so
that I can't be heard, nor my harp. The boys
have cut off my harp-strings, throe of them,
the other day, which cost me G^d, or Id, I
tell them it's a shame, but I might as well
speak to the stones. I never go out that they
miss me. I don't make more than d<. a-week
in the streets, if I make that."
OBajLNMAir,wiTH Flttte Habmokicoh Oboas.
" When I am come in this oonnixy I had nine
or ten year old, so I know the English
language better than mine. At that time
there was no organ about but the old-fashioxied
one made in Bristol, with gold organ-pipe in
front. Then come the one with figure-dolli
in front ; and then next come the piano (m%,
made at Bristol too ; and now the flute ona^
which come from Paris, where they makt
them. He is an Italian man that make them,
and he is the only man dat can make them,
because he paid for them to the government
(patented them), and now ho is the only
one.
" I belong to Parma, — to the small village
in the duchy. My father keep a farm, but I
had three year old, I think, when he died.
There was ten of us altogeder ; but one of m
he was died, and one he drown in the water.
I was very poor, and I was go out begging
there ; and my uncle said I should go to Pam
to get my living. I was so poor I was afraid
to die, for I get nothing to eat. My uncle ny,
I will take one of them to try to keep him.
So I go along with him. Mother was ci7in|
when I went away. She was very poor, i
went with my uncle to Paris, and we walk aU
the way. I had some white mice there, and
he had a organ. I did middling. The YretnA
people is more kind to the charity than the
English. There are not so many beggtf
there as in England. The first time ths
Italian come over here we was took a good
bit of money, but now !
*' When I was in Paris my uncle had to go
home again on business. He ask me too if I
would go with him. But I was afndd to be
hungry again, for you see I was feel hungiy
again, and I wouldn't, for I got a piece of
bread in France.
** My uncle was along with another man,
who was a master like, you know ; for he had
a few instrument, but common thing. I doni
know if he have some word wid my uncle, but
they part Den dis man say • Come to England
with me,* and he said *you shall have five frano
the month, and yoiu: victual.' We walk as far
as Calais, and then we. come in the boat. I
was very sick, and I thought that I die then.
I say to him plenty times * I ynsh I never
come,* for I never thought to get over.
•• When we got to London, we go to a little
court there, in Safih>n-hill; and I was live
there in the little public-house. I go out,
sometime white mice, sometime monkey,
sometime with organ — small one. I dare wf
1 make 10«. a-week for him ; but he wor veqr
kind to me, and give me to eat what I like.
He was take care of me, of course. I was
very young at dat time.
•* After I was in London a-year, I go back
to Paris with my master. There I comd have
made my fortune, but I was so young I did
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
174
now what I do. There was an old
who ask me to come as her servant,
aster did not like veiy well to let me go.
ay to me, * Yon shall not have no hud
Qoly to go behind the carriage, or follow
he ombrella.' But I was so young I did
now my chance. I tell her I have my
I in Italy ; and she say she go to Italy
9 years, and I shall have two months to
ay mother. I did not go with this old
ind I lose the chance ; but I had only
m years, and I was foolish.
tien I come to England again, and stop
three years. Where my master go, I
)liged to go too. Then I go to Italy, and
my moder. The most part of my family
know me when I went home, for I was
much, and older. I stop there six
, and then I come back to England with
r man. He give me 12 franc a-month,
aiy kind indeed he was. He had some
* in this countiy, so he take me along
m* There was only me and him. My
naster have two beside me.
le master of organs send to Italy for
D come here. Suppose I have a broder
y, I write to him to send me two boys,
» look out for them. They send money
I boy to come. Sometimes he send 3/.,
mes 8/. 10*. or 4^ Then they walk,
re on the pear or the grape, or what is
; and if they put by any, then they
rhat they put by. They generally tell
liey shall have 12 francs a-month. But
me they was cheap ; but now they are
and it is sometime a pound a-month,
I sooner have one who have been here
, because den they know the way to take
r the instrument, you know. ■
top in England two year and six month,
I come over with my second master.
id me like a bank, and I saved it up,
take it over to Italy with me. When I
lat of money I was obliged to send it
bo my broder in Italy, for to keep him,
tow. When I go home again I had a
noney with me. I give it to the gentle-
hat support my mother and sister ; but
not enough, you know, not three part,
iras obliged to give him a good bit
en I came back to England again, to
me masttT. It take about a month to
he Toyage. I was walk it all the way.
sross the Alps. You must to come over
I dare say I walk thirty miles a-day,
me more dan that. I sleep at the
house; but when you not get to the
house, then when it begins dark, then
> the farm-house and ask for a bit of
x> lodge. But I generally goes to the
•house when I get one. They charge
2<2., or sometimes \d, I never play
Qg on the road, or take de white mice,
r take nothing,
ter that time I have been to Italy and
back three or four times ; but I never been
with no master, not after the second one. I
bought an organ of my master. I think I give
him 13/. No, sir, I not give the money down»
but so much the week, and he trust me. It
was according what I took, I paid him. I
was tiying to make up 1/. and bring him
down. It take me about eighteen months to
pay him, because I was obliged to keep me
and one things and another. It was a mid*
dling organ. It was one was a piano, you
know. I take about 1<. ^, or Ij, G</. a-day
regularly with it.
" I have now an organ — a flute organ they
call it — and it is my own. It cost me 20/. A
man make it come from France. He knows
an organ-maker in France, and he write for
me, and make it come over for me. I suppose
he had a pound profit for to make it come for
me; for I think it cost less than 20/. in
Paris.
** I have this organ this twelve months. It
has worn out a htUe, but not much. It is
not so good as when it come from France.
An organ will wear twenty year, but some of
them break. Then you must have it always
repaired and tuned. You see, the music of it
must be tuned every five or six months. Mine
has never been tuned yet, the time I have it.
It is the trumpet part that get out of tune
sooner. I know a man who goes out with de
big organ on the wheels, and he time the
organ for me. I go to him, and I say, *My
organ wants de repair ;'i and he come, and he
never charge me anything. He make the
base and tenor agree. He tune the first one
to the base, you know, and then the second
one to the second base. When the organ out
of tune the pipe rattle.
" The organ fills with dust a good deal in
the summer time, and then you must take it
all to pieces. In London they can tune and
repair it. They charge 10«. to clean and tune
it. Sometime he have something to do with
the pipes, and then it come to more. In
winter the smoke get inside, and make it come
all black. I am obliged to keep it all covered
up when I am playing.
*« My organ play eight tunes. Two are from
opera, one is a song, one a waltz, one is horn-
pipe, one is a polka, and the other two is
dandng tunes. One is from * II Lombardi,'
of Verdi. All the organs play that piece. I
have sold that music to gentlemens. They
say to me, * What is that you play T and I say,
*■ From H Lombardi.' Then they ask me if I
have the music ; and I say * Yes ;' and I sell
it to them for Am, I did not do this with my
little organ ; but when I went out with a big
organ on two wheels. My little flute oi^gan
play the same piece. The other opera piece
is * H Trovatore.' I have heard ' II Lombardi *
in Italy. It is very nice music; but never
hear * H Trovatore.' It is very nice music, too.
It go veiy low. My gentlemens like it very
moeh. I don't undenSand muaic at aU. The
1T8
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON fOOSL
other piece is English piece, which ire coll the
* Liverpool Hornpipe.' There is two Liverpool
Hornpipe. I know one these twent}' years.
Then come *The Ratcatcher's Daughter;' he
is a English song. It's get a little old : but
when it's firvt come out the poor people do
like it, but the gontlemcns they like more the
opera, you know. After that is what you call
* Minnie,' another English 8ong. He is mid.
dhng popular. He is not one of the new tune,
but they do like it. The next one is a Scotch
contre-danse. It is good tunes, but I don't
know the name of it. The next one is, I think,
a polka; but I think he's made fr«>m port of
'Scotische.' Theru is two or thn^ tunes
belongs to the *Scotischc.' The next one is, I
think, a voltz of Vienna. I don't know which
one, but I say to the organ-man, * I want a
raits of Vienna ;' and he say, * "Which one ?
because there is plenty of valtz of Vienna.' Of
course, there is nine of them. After the opera
music, the valtz and the i>olka is the best
music in the organ.
'* For doing a barrel of eight tune it oome very
near \4J., one thing and another. You can have
a fresh tune put into an old barrel. But then
he charge 10c. He's more trouble than to put
ob3j one. I have my tune ohanffed once a-
jear. Yon see most of the people gets veiy
tired of one tunc, and I'm obtiged to change
them. ' You can have the new tune in three
or four da^-s, or a week's time, if he has
nothing to do; but sometime it is three or
foor weeks, if he has plenty to do. It is a
man who is called John Hicks who does the
new tunes. He was bom in BristoL He has
a father in Bristol. He live in Crookenwcll,
just at the back of the House of Gmrectioo.
You know the prison ? then it is jost at the
back, on the other side.
**It won't do to have all opera musie in my
organ. Yon must have some opera tones for
the gentlemen, and some for the poor people,
and they like the dancing tuiie. Dere is some
fbr Uie gentlcmens, and some for the poor
peoples.
■* I have often been into the houses of gen-
tlemens to play tunes for dancing. I have
been to a gentleman's near Golden-square,
where he have a shop for to make Uic things
for the horse — a saddler, you call it. He have
identy customers ; them what gets the things
for the horse. There was carriage outside. It
was large room, where you could dance thirty-
two altogether. I think it's the boxing-day I
go there. I have 10*. for that night He have
a fiuin in the eotmtry, and I go there too. He
have the little children there — like a school,
■nd there was two policemen at the door, and
yon couldn't get in without the paper to ^ow.
He had Punch and Judy. He has a English
band as well.
" I have some two or three plaee where I go
regular at Christmas-time, to plaj all night to
the children. Sometime I go for an hour or
two. When tfaeym find of daaoing they lit
down and have a rest, and I play tl
tunc. I go to schools, too, and play to
children. They come and fetch me,
* You come such a time and play to t
children,' and I say, *Very well,' ai
all ri^'ht.
*' My organ is like the organ, but
anotlier part, and that is like a flute
or^an is called de trompet, and that
called tlie tiute-organ, because he's
tlutu in it When they first come
make a great deal of money. I tal
or Sic., and sometimes Ic. (kl. You se
business, some has got his regulsur e
and some they go up the street ai
the street and they don't take not
have not got any regular customen
sir.
**■ On the Monday when I goes on
over the water up the Claphani-road.
two or three regular there, and they
plenty of beer and to eat. I know thi
those twenty year. If I say to that lad
vci;)' ill,' he give me his card and say
the doctor,' and I have nothing to pay
was three sister, but one he died.
vexT old, and one he can only eom«
window. I dare say I have six boose
neighbonrhood where they give me i
and some 2d. every time I go there,
summer-time, when* it is hot, I walk ti
wich on the Monday. I have, I dare sa;
houses there where I go regular. I a
op 1«. I pay 4il. sometime to zide ]
the boat My organ weight more tl
pounds, and that tire me. The first tii
rm not osed to it you know, I feel
tired thvi when I'm used to it •
** On the Tneadi^ I go to Grreenwich, i
it is cold, instead of the Monday. On'
day I ain't got no way to go. I try »
down atWlutechi9>el, or some other n
Thursday I goes out Islington way, i
as fkr as Highbury Bam, but not
There is a bill of the rulway and i
there. I've got three or four regular
ers there. The most I get at onoe i
never get fid. One gentleman at Gr
give me Od., but oxdy once. On th4
I've got no way to go ; I go where I li
Saturday I go to Regent-street I go tc
ter-square and the foreign hotels, wl
foreign gentlemen is. Sometime I
chance to get a few shilling ; sometin
halfpenny. The most I midce is soom
the fair-time. Sometime at Gn^eowii
make ds. all in copper, and that is the
ever make ; and the lowest is somet
Vr'heu I see I can't make nothing, I g
It is veiy bad in wet weather. I mm
home, for the rain spoil the instrumeol
is nothing like sommer-times, for the
money that I make for the year it <
between da. and lOf . the week. Some
is 0</., sometimes !«., or It. di. or 2«. 1
For 12t. the waek it mnst be 2s. the 4
LOifDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
177
more than I take. I wiah somebody
I2«. ; there is no sueh chance.
live in a room by myself with three
find we pay \s, each, and there is two
f I go to lodging-house I pay In. 6d. the
In the Italian lodging-house they give
an shirt on the Sunday for the Is. Qd,
y own shirt, but they clean it This is
Italian house. In English house it is
ind no shirt I have breaki^t of coffee
1 1 like, and we club together. "We have
jid butter, sometime herring, sometime
what we likes. In the day I buy a
h of bread and a pen'orth of cheese,
ne beer, and at night I have snpi>er. I
aaccarone — what you call it? — or rice
bbage, or I make soup or bile some
with nil four together it come to about
.Od. a- day for living.
the house where I live they are all
i. They are nearly all Italians that
»utI^athcr-lano and Saffron -hill. There
>d bit of them live there. I should say
dare sny there is. The house where I
uy own. I let empty room ; they bring
wn things, yon know. It is my lease,
ay the rent.
s only the people say that the Italian
•e badly used: they are not so, the
( are very kind to them. If he make Is,
g it home ; if 3s. or 4s. or 0//. he bring
!. He is not command^ to bring home
ti ; that is what the people say. I was
e magistrate of pohce in Marlborough-
3ar days ago, about a little Itahan boy
e policemen take for asking money.
ne.ask to buy his monkey and talk with
d then he ask for a penny, and the police
n. A gentleman ask me about the boys,
m it is all nonsense what the people say.
I no more boys sent liere now. If a boy
over, and he is bad boys, he goes and
the street instead of working; then, after
BO much for his coming to England, it
I. It does not pay the boys. If I was
>r I would not have the boys, if they
are for nothing.
ypose I have two organs, then one is in
use doing nothing. Then some one
ad say, ' Lend me the organ for to-day.'
say, * Yes/ and charge him, some 44f.,
4^. ; or if somebody ill and he cannot
then he's organ doing nothing, and he
out for 4</. or Od, There is two or three
ion who sends out men with organs,
ont know who has got the most of us.
hey pny the men 1/. a-mont!i and their
r some lbs. Then, some goes half and
m : then, it's more profits to the man
le master.
cistmas-time is nothing like the sum-
ae. Sometimes they give you a Christ -
X, but it's not the time for Christmas-
)w. Sometimes it's a glass of beer:
* a Christmns-box for you.' Sometimes
lass of gin, or rum, or a piece of pud-
ding : • Here's a Christmas-box for you.' I
have had Gd,^ but never Is. for a Christmas-
box. Sometimes on a boxing-day it is 3«., or
2s. ed. for the doy.
" I have never travelled in the countiy with
my organ, only once when I was young, as ftr
as Liverpool, but no fhrthcr. Many has got
his regular time out in the countiy. "When I
go out with the organ I should say it make
altogether that I walk ten miles. I want two
new pairs of boots every year. I start off in
the morning, sometimes eight, sometimes nine
or ten, whether I have f&rio go, I never stop
out after seven o'clock at night Some do,
but I don't.
" I don't know music at all. I am middling
fond of it. There is none of the Italians that
I know that sings. The French is very fond
of singing.
" When first you begins, it tries the wrist,
turning the handle of the organ ; but you soon
gets accustomed to it. At first, the arm was
sore with the work all day. When I am play-
ing I ttun the handle regularly. Sometimes
there are people who say, * Go a little quick,'
but not often.
"If the silk in flront of the organ is bad, I get
new and put it in myself ; the rain spoil it vieiy
much. It depend upon what sort of organ he
is, as to the sort of silk he gets : sometimes
'2s. 6d, a-yard, and he take about a yard and a
half. Some like to do this once a-year ; but
some when he see it get a little dirty, like
fresh things, yon know, and then it is twiee
a-ycnr.
•*The police are very quiet to us. When
anybody throw up a window and say, * Go on/
I go. Sometime they say there is sick in the
house, when there is none, but I go just the
same. If I did not, then the policeman come,
and I get into trouble. I have heard of the
noise in the papers about the organs in the
street, but we never talk of it in our quarter.
They pay no attention to tlie subject, for they
know if anybody say, ' Go/ then we must de-
part That is what we do."
Italian Pipebs and Claiuonet Pulysbs.
" The companion I got about with me, is with
me from Naples, not the city, but in the
coimtiy. His is of my family ; no, not my
cousin, but my mother was the sister of his
cousin. Yes! yes! yes! my cousin. Some
one told me he was my nephew, but it's
cousin. Naples is a pretty city. It is more
pretty than Paris, but not so big. I worked
on the groimd at Naples, in the countiy, and I
guarded sheep. I never was a domestic ; but
it was fbr my father. It was groimd of his.
It was not much. He worked the earth for
yellow com. Ho had not much of sheep,
only fifteen. WTien I go out with the sheep I
corry my hngpipes alwoys with me. I play
on them when I was sixteen years of age. I
play thorn when I guard my sheep. In mj
LXV.
M
178
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOS.
cotmtiy they call my instrument de 'zam-
pogna.' All the boys in my coantry play on
it, for there are many masters there who teach
it. I taught myself to play it. I bought my
own instrument. I gave the money myself
for that affair. It cost me seven francs. The
bag is made of a skin of goat. Thero are
four clarionets to iL There is one for the
high and one for the bass. I play them
with different hands. The other two clarionets
make a noise to make the accord ; one makes
high and the other the low. They drone to make
himmony. The airs I play are the airs of my
countiy. I did not invent them. One is
* La Tarentule Italien,' and another is what we
call *• La Badend/ but I not know what you call
it in French. Another is the ' Death of the
Roi de France.* I know ten of these airs. The
* Pastorello Naopolitan ' is veiy pretty, and so
is the * Pastorelle Komaino.'
" When I go out to guard my sheep I play
my zampogna, and I walk along and the
sheep foUow me. Sometimes 1 sit down and
the sheep eat about me, and I play on my
instrument Sometimes I go into the moun-
tains. There are plenty of' mountains in my
country, and with snow on them. I can hear
the guardians of sheep playing all around me
in the mountains. Yes, many at once, — six,
ten, twelve, or fifteen, on every side. No, I did
not play my instrument to keep my sheep
together, only to leom the airs. 1 was a good
player, but there were others who played
much better than me. Every night in my
village there are four or six who play together
instruments like mine, and all the people
dance. They prefer to dance to the * Taren-
tule Italien.' It is a pretty dance in our
costmne. The English do not dance like nous
autres. We are not paid for playing in the
village, only at ffites, when gentlemen say,
' Flay ; ' and then they give 20 sous or 40 sons,
like that. There is another air, which is playpd
only for singing. There is one only for smging
cl^ansons, and another for singing * La Pridre
de la Vierge.' Those th^t play the zampogna
go to the houses, and the candles are lighted
on the altar, and we pUy while the bourgeois
sing the pri^.
^ I am aged 23 years next March. I was
sixteen when I learnt my instrument The
twelfth of this month I shall have loft my
country nine months. I have traversed the
states of Home and of France to come to
England. I marched all the distance, playing
my zampogna. I gain ten sous French whilst
I voyage in the states of France. I march
from Marseilles to Paris. To reach Marseilles
by the boat it cost 15 fr^. by head.
«*The reason why we left our native land
is this : — One of our comrades hod been to
Pans, and he had said he gained much money
by painters by posing for his form. Then I
had envy to go to Pans and gain money.
In my country they pay 20 sous for each year
for each sheep. I had 200 to guard for a
monsieur, who was very xidL. There were
four of us left our village at the same time.
We all four played de zampogna. My father
was not content that I voyage the world. He
was very sorry. We got our passport ar-
ranged tout de suite, two passport for us four.
We all began to play our instruments together,
as soon &s we were out of the village. Four
of our friends accompanied us on our road,
to say adieu. We took bread of com vrith ni
to eat for the first di^. When we had finished
that we played at the next village, and they
give us some more bread.
*' At Paris I posed to the artists, and they
pay me 20 sous for the hour. The most I pose
is four hours for the day. We could not pl^y
our instruments in tlie street, because the
Serjeant- de-ville catch us, and take us di-
rectly to prison. I go to play in the courts be-
fore the houses. I asked the concierge at the
door if he would give me permission to play
in the court I gain 15 sous or 1 franc par
jour. For all the time I rest in Paris I gain
2 francs for the day. This is with posing to
artists to paint, and for playing. I also plij
at the barri6re outside Paris, where the wine
is cheap. They gave us more there than in
the courts; they are more generous when
they drink the wine.
" When I arrive at Paris my comrades hsfe
leave me. I was alone in Paris. There an
Italian proposed to me to go to America aa
his servant He had two organs, and he had
two servants to play them, and they gave him
the half of that which they gained. He said
to me, that he would search for a {nno
organ for me, and I said I would give lum
the half of that which I gained in the stareetk
He made us sign a card before a notary.
He told us it would cost 150 francs to go to
America. I gave him the money to pay from
Paris to Folkestone. From tliere we voyaged
on foot to Londres. I only worked for mni
for eight days, because I said I would not
go to Am^rique. He is here now, for he has
no money to go in Am^que.
" I met my cousin here in Londres. I w«
here fifteen da}'s before I met him. We
neither of us speak Anglais, and not French
either, only a little very bad ; but we under-
stand it We go out together now, and I
play the zampogna, and he the ' bifora
Italien,' or what the lYench call flageolet^
and the English pipes. It is like a fiageolet.
He knows all the airs that I play. He play well
the airs — that ho does. Ho wears a cloak
on his shoulders, and I have one, too ; but I
left it at home to-day. It is a very large
cloak, with tliree yards of etoffe in it. He
carry in his hat a feather of what you call
here peacock, and a French lady give hixii
the bright ribbon which is round his hat
I have also plume de peacock and flowen
of stuff, like at tlie shops, round my hat In
my couutrj- we always put roimd our hit
white and red tlowers.
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
179
imetbnes ve go to pose to the artists,
is not always. There are plenty of
near Newman-street, but in other
rs there are none at alL It is for our
ae they paint ns. The colours they put
3 pictures are those of our costume. I
been three times to a gentleman in a
street, where they took our portraits
jnraphique. They give a shilling. I know
>nses where I go to be done for a por-
but I don't know the names of the
surs, or the streets where they reside.
3 artists' they pay 1a. par heure, and we
two or three heures, and the most is
eures. When we go together we have
eh for the hour. My cousin is at an
I to-day. They paint him more than
ecause he carries a sash of silk round
aist, with ornaments on it. I haven't
le, because I want the money to buy
e gain \s. each the day. Ah ! pardon,
eur, not more than that. The artists
t for every day, perhaps one time for
eek. "When we first come here, we take
ween the two, but now it makes cold,
B cannot often play. Yesterday we play
ville, and we take Td, each. Plenty of
IS look at us, but when my comrade
bis hat they give nothing. There is
onth we take 25. each the day, but now
l«. For the tlirce months that we have
lere, we have gained 12s. the week each,
,if wo count what we took when first we
rrived . For two months we took always
m every day — always, always ; but now
ily 1«., or 2«., or Id. I had saved 72«.,
had it in my bourse, which I place un-
jT head when I sleep. "We sleep three in
-myself, my cousin, and another Italian.
night this other toko my bourse and
ray. Now I have only 8». in my bourse,
rly broke the heart when I was robbed.
9 pay 2rf. for each for our bed every
We live in a house held by a Mossieu
I. There are three who sleep in one
ne, and my comrade, and another. We
i large. This mossieu let us lodge
ir than otliors, because we are miserable,
ive not much money. For breakfast we
half-loaf each one. It is a loaf that
list pay Ad. or 44rf. We pay Hid. each
at, and \d. each for a cup of tea or
In the day we eat '2d. or 3</. between
>r some bread, and we come home the
It half- past eight, and we eat supper.
f maccaroni, or potatoes boiled, and we
d. each. It costs us Qd. each ihe day
There are twenty-four Italian in the
where we live, and they have three
is. When one is more miserable than
lers, then he is helped ; and at another
le assists in his turn. We pay 2rf. a-
0 wash our shirt. I always share with
iisin what he makes in the day. If he
> work and I stop at home, it is the same
thing, and the same with me. He carries the
money always, and pays for what we have
want to eat; and then, if I wish to go back to
my own country, then we share the money
when we separate.
** The gentlemen give ns more money than
the ladies. We have never had anything to
eat given to us. They have asked us to sing,
but we don't know how. Only one we have
sung to, an Italian mossieu, who make our
portraits. We sang the * Prayer of the Sainte
Vierge.' They have also asked us to dance,
but we did not, because the seijeant-de^ville,
if we assemble a great mob, come and defend
us to play.
** We have been once before the magistrate,
to force the mossieu who brought us over to
render the passport of my native village. He
has not rendered to me my card. We shall
go before a magistrate again some day.
" I can write and read Italian. I did not go
much to the school of my native village, but
the master taught me what I know. I can
read better than I write, for I write very bad
and slow. My cousin cannot read and write.
I also know my numbers. I can count quickly.
When we write a letter, we go to an Italiui
mossieu, and we tell him to say this and that,
and he puts it down on the paper. We pay
1«. for the letter, and then at the post th^
make us pay 2«. 2</. When my parents get a
letter from me, they take it to a mossieu,
or the schoolmaster of the village, to read
for them, because they cannot read. They
have sent me a letter. It was well written
by a gentleman who wrote it for them. I
have sent my mother five pieces of five francs ,
from Paris. I gave the money, and they gave
me a letter ; and then my mother went to the
consul at Naples, and they gave her the
money. Since I have been here I could
send no money, because it was stolen. If I
had got it, I should have sent some to my
parents. When I have some more, I shall
send it.
" I love my mother very much, and she is
good, but my father is not good. If he gain a
piece of 20 sous, he goes on the morrow to the
marchand of wine, and play the cards, and
spend it to drink. I never send my money
to my father, but to my mother."
Italian with Mokket.
Alt Italian, who went about with trained mon-
keys, furnished me with the following account.
He had a peculiar boorish, and yet good-
tempered expression, especially when he laugh-
ed, which he did continually.
He was dressed in a brown, ragged, doth
jacket, which was buttoned over along, loose,
dirty, drab waistcoat, and his trowsers were of
broad-ribbed corduroy, discoloured with long
wearing. Bound his neck was a plaid hand-
kerchief, and his shoes were of the extreme
*' strong-men's" kind, and grey with dust
160
LOXDOX LABOUR ASD THE LOSJJOS POOR,
and want of Maoking. He wurc the Savoy
Aud broad-briiimicd felt hat, aud witli it ou hid
head had a vur>' picturesque apiMUiraiice, and
the sliadow of the brim falling on the upper
part of his brown face gave luui abuoiit a Mu-
zillo-like look. There was, howtnrcr, an udour
about him, — half monkey, half dirt, — that
was far from agreeable, aud which pervaded
the aiiartmeiit in which he sat.
'* 1 have jf;ot monkey, " lie said, " but 1
mustn't call in London. I goes out in eoun-
tree. I was frightened to come here. I was
frightened you give me months in prison
I did cr}' I — I cry because I have no money to
go and buy anoder monkey ! Yes ! I did love
my monkey ! I did love him for the sake of
my life ! I give de raiiUDa, and bile dcm for
him. He have eveiy ting he like. I am
come here from Parma .about fourteen or fif-
teen year ago. I used to work in my coon-
tree. I used to go and look at de ship in d«
montapfiK's : non ! non ! pas des vaisaeauz,
mais lies moutons ! I beg your pardon to
laugh. ]^L* master did bring me up here,—
dat master is gone to America now, — he is
comi! to mo and tell me to come to Angletexxe.
Someafmycouutr}Tncni8ver}'frightenedwhat j Hi' has tell mc I make plenty of money m
yon do. Ko, sir, I never play de monkey in dc i dis country. All ! I could get plenty of mo*
I have been out varu dere is so many ; ucy in dat time in London, but now I get not
donkey, up a top at dat village — vat you call : iniK)sh. I vork for myself at present
—I cant tell de name. JJey goes dere for
pastime, — pleasure, — when it makes
line
weatlier. iJere is two church, aud two large
hotel, — yes, I tiuk it is Blackheath! 1 goes
dere somt^tiine >iil my monkey. 1 have got
only one ninnkey now, — homcLiine I have got
two; — he is dressed coLiiue un soldat rouge,
like one soldier, vid a red jacket and a Jiona-
parte'b hat. My monkey only pull olf his
hat a:ul take a de money. lie u&ed to ride a
de dojT ; but dey stole a dedfi*;, — some of de
tinkare, a mun vid de unibrella goiii^' by, stole
a him. JJere is only tree uiontlis dut I have
got my monkey. It is iny own. I ^avc dirt^-
livc shilling for dis one I got. lie did not
know no tricks when he come to me lirst. 1
did teach u him all he know. I Utich a hiiu
vid de kindness, do you see. I must look
rough for irco or four times, but not to l>eat
him. lie can hardly stir about ; he is afraid
dat you go to liit him, you sec. I mustn't
My
master give me nine — ten shilhng each veei,
and my ftwit, and my lodging— yes ! eveiy-
tiu<; ven I am lirst come here. I used to go
out vid de organ, — a good one, — and I did get
two, tree, and more sliillan for my master
each day. It was chance-work : sometiuet
I did get noting ut all. Do organ was nr
master's. He had no one else but me wid
him. We use«l to travel about togeder, and
he took all de money. He had one Ger-
man piano, and )dny de moosick. I cant tdl
how nioosh ho did make, — ho never tt-ll to
me, — but I did shoat him sometimes myself.
Sometime when I take de two sliillan I did
give him dc eighteen -pence ! I b<'g your par-
don to laugh ! De man did bring up many
lUihons t^) dis countr}', but now it is difficutt
to get de passports for my couutrj'men. I
was C'ightoeu months with my master ; after
dat I vent to fann -house. 1 run away ftoBi
my master. He pave mo a slaj) of do face,
feed him ven I am teaching 1dm. Some- 1 you know, von time, so I don't like it. yon
times 1 buy a happorth of nuts to give him, ! know, and run awny! I beg your panlon to
after ht> ha.s done what I wont him to do. . lau^h ! I used to do good many tings at de
Dis one has not de force behind ; he is weuk i riirni -house. It was in Yorkshire. 1 used to
in de back. Some monkey is like de children | look at di: beasts, and takf a de vater. 1 don-t
at de school, some is very hard to teush, ^'et noting for ray vork, only for de sake of de
and some learn de more quick, you see. De | ln-lly I do it. I was dere about tree year,
one I had before dis one could do many lings. . Dvy behave to me verj' Will. Dey give me de
He had not much esjtrit pas pi'iinde chose ; clothes and all I wont. After dat I go to
but he could ploy de drum, — de litldle, too, — I Livi-iiiool, and I meet some r»f my couutry-
Ah ! but he dont play de fiddle hkc de Chris- 1 ;uiii den\ and d(?y lend me de monkey, and
iian. you know : but like de monkey. He I teash liim to danse, light, and jomp, mu.sh
used to fight wid de sword, — not exactly like I us 1 could, and I go wid my monkey about d«
de Cliribtian, but like de m(mkey too, — much
betttr. 1 beg your pardon t«3 laugh, sir ! He
u.sed to move his leg and jom]>, — 1 call it
danse, — but he could not do x'uH^a like de
Christian. — I have seen the Chi-islian though
what cant dnuse more dan de njonkey! I
beg your pardon to laugh. 1 did pky valtz to
him on de oi>;mii. Non t he had not moosh
cor for de miisick, but I force liim to keep de
time by de Jerk of de siring. He commence to
valtz veil wlien lie die. He is dead the vinter
dat is passed, at Sheltonham. He eat soim?
red-ec paint. 1 \!,\\v him some castor-oil. but
no good : he tlio in gn-at deal pain, poor fellow I
c(uuitr>'.
" Some day I make tree shillan wid xny
monkey, sometime only sixp<>nce, and some-
time noting at all. "When it rain or snow I
can get noting. I gain peut-etre a dozcii
sliillan a week isid my inonkv'y, sometime
more, but not ofli^n. Den^ is long time 1 have
been in d*; environs of London ; but I dont
like to go in do streets here. I dont
like to go to prison, ^loiikey is defended,
— dcfimdUf — what you call it, London. Bni
dere is many monkey in London still. Oh,
non ! not a dozen. Dere is not one do-
z»n monkey wot play in Angleterre. 1 Know
I rather lose six pouiiJ.a than lose my monkey. \ dere is two* monkey it Suflron hiU, and one go
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOS.
181
Jon ; bat he do no harm. I don't know
monkej was train to go down de area
eol a de silver spoons out of de kitchen,
onld be great fool to tell dat ; but every
ust get a living de best dey can. Wot
ron about de monkey I'm frightened vill
le!
tell jou dey is defended in de streets,
»y take me up. I hope not My mon-
very honest monkey, and get mo de
I never was in prison, and I would
:e to be. I play de nioosick, and please
ople, and 'never steal noting. Non!
Die no steal, nor my monkey too. Dey
ooen never say noting to me. I am not
r, but artiste \ — every body know dat —
\j monkey is artiste too ! I beg your
1 to laugh. "
The DiNdiio Doas.
EiTED the following narrative from the
m who has been so long known about
xeots of London with a troop of x>er-
ig dogs. He was especially picturesque
I appearance. His hair, which was
3d rather than grey, was parted down
iddle, and hung long and straight over
lonlders. He was dressed in a coach -
blue greatcoat with many capos. His
ind was in a shng made out of a dirty
^-handkerchief, and in his other he held
k, bj means of which l^e could just
;e to hobble along. Ho was vor^' ill,
Tj poor, not having been out with his
ir nearly two months. He appeared to
in great pcdn. The civiUty, if not
less of his manner, threw an air of
nent about him, that Btruck me more
y from its contrast with tlie manners
English belonging to the same class.
gan: —
tiave do dancing dogs for de streets-
hare nothing else. I have tree dogs —
I called Finette, anoder von Favorite,
} her nomme, on de odor von Ozor.
16 said, with a shrug of the shoulders,
jrer to my inquiiy as to what the dogs
un danse, un valse, un jomp a dc
ind troo de hoop — non, noting else.
ime I had de four dogs— • I did lose de
Ah! sho had bcaucoup d'esprit —
of vit, you say — she did jomp a de
Btter dan all. H or nomrao was Taborine !
is dead dare is lung time. All ma dogs
les habillements — the dress and dc
hat Dey have a leotcl jackette in
colours en ^toffe — some de red, and
le green, and some de bleu. Deir hats
rouge et noir — red and black, wit a
plume- fedder, you say. Dere is some
.1 year I liave been in dis country. I
from Italic — Italie — Oui, Monsieur,
: did live in a leetle ville, trento migUa,
uile, de Parma. Jc travaille dans le
pc, I YGck out in de countrie — ^je ne
sais comment vous appellez la campagne.
There is no commerce in de montagne. I am
come in dis countiy here. I have leetel
business to come. I thought to gagner ma
vie — to gain my life wid my leetel dogs in
dis coimtrie. I have dem dej& when I have
come here from Parma — j'cu avail dix. I
did have de ten dogs — je les apporte. I have
carried all de ten from Italie. I did learn —
yes — yes — de dogs to donsoin ma own coun-
trie. It did make de cold in de montagne in
winter, and I had not no vork dere, and I
must look for to gain my life some oder place.
Apr^s 9a, I have instruct my dogs to clanse.
Yes, ils learn to danse ; I play de music, and
dey do jomp. Non, non — pas du tout! I
did not never beat ma dogs ; dare is a way to
learn de dogs without no vip. Premierement,
ven I am come hero I have gained a leetel
monnaie — plus que now — beaucoup d'avan-
tage — plent}' more. I am left ma logcment
— my lodging, you say, at W hours in do
morning, and am stay away vid ma dogs till 7
or 8 hours in de evening. Oh ! I cannot count
how many times de leetel dogs have danse in
de day — twenty — dirty — forty peut-Ctre —
all depends : sometimes I woulil gain de tree
shilling — sometime de couple — sometime not
nothing — all depend. Ven it did make bad
time, I could not vork; I could not danse.
I could not gain my life den. If it make cold
de dogs are ill — like tout de mondc. I did
pay plenty for de nourilure of dc dogs. Some-
time dey did get du pain do leetel dops it^
bread) in de street — sometime I give dem
de meat, and make do soup for dem. Ma
dogs danse comme les chiens, mais dey valtz
comme les dames, and dey stand on daro
back-legs hke les gentilhommes. Alter I am
come here to dis countrie two day, am terrible
malade. I am gone to hospital, to St Bai^
tolome, de veek before de Jour dc Ni>cl (Christ-
mas-day). In dat moment 1 have du fevre.
I have rested in I'hospital quatre semaine
four veek. Ma dogs vero at hbertie all de
lime. Von compagnon of mine have pro-
mised mo to take de care of ma dogs, and ho*
have lose dem all — tout les dix. After dat I
have bought tree oder dogs — one eananol,
anoder von appelU * Grifon,' and de oder vas
de dog ordinaire, — non! non! nt.t one *pull
dog.' He no good. I mast have one mouth,
or six semaine, to instruite ma dogs. I have
rested in a logcment Ilalien at Saffron-hill,
ven I am come here to Lt^ndon. Dure vas
plenty of Italiens dare. It was tout plein —
quite full of strangers. All come dare — dey
come from France, from Germany, from ItoUe.
I have paid two shillings per semaine each
veek — only pour le lit, for de bed. Every
von make de kitchen for himself. Vol number
vas dare, you say? Sometime dare is i^O
person dere, and sometime dere is dirty per-
son in de logement, sometime more dan dat
It is vexy petite maison. Daro is von dozen
beds— dat is all — and two sleep demselves
182
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
ill each bed. Sometimes, vcn dere arrive
plenty, dey sleep demselves tree in von bed —
but ordinoircment dere is only two. Dey is
nil musicians dere — one play de organ, de
piano, de guitar, do Hute, yes, dare vos some
\ot played it, and de viol too. Do great part
vas Itailens. Some of dem have des monkeys,
dti odcrs d<» mice white, and des pigs d'Indes,
(guinea-pigs) and encore oders have des
dolls vid two lieads, and des puppets vot
danse vid de foot on de boards. Des animals
are in an appartcmcnt apart vid do moosick.
Dare vos sometime tree dancing dogs, one
dozen of mice, five or six pigs d'Indes, and
ma monkey, altogether vid de moosick, by
demselves.
** Dare is all de actors vot vas dare. Ma
treo dogs gained mo sometime two shillnn,
sometime von shillan, and sometime I would
rest c»n my feet all day, and not gain two sous.
Sometimes do boys would cnsault ma dogs
vid de stones. Dare is long time I have
rested in London. Dare is short time I vas
in tie cttmpogne de countree here, not much.
London is better dan de canipagne for ma
dogs — dare is always de vorld in London —
de rity is large — yes ! I am always rested at
SaCrron-hill for JO, 11 yoars. I am malade
at prt-seut, since the ir>th of Mars ; in ma
anus, ma legs, ma tighs have do douleure — I
have pltnty of pains to march. Ma dogs are
in df logement now. It is since the lOth of
Man» d:it I have not vent out vid ma dogs —
yes, since de 15th of Mars I have done no
vork. Since dat time I have not paid no
money for ma logement — it is due encore.
Non! non! 1 have not gained my life since
tlie L'ith of Mars. Plenty of time I have been
vitout noting to eat. Des Itoliens at de loge-
ment dL*y have given mo pieces of bread and
bouilli. All ! it is verj- miserable to be poor,
like lac. I have sixty and tirtcen years. I
cannot march now but vith plenty of pains.
Von doctrir have give to me a letter for to
present ti> de poor-house. YIq did give me my
medicine ftT nothing — gratis. He is obliged,
he is dc doctor of de paroisse. He is a very
brave und honest man, dat doctor dare. At de
poor-house day have give to me a bread and
six sous on Friday of de veek dat is past, and
told mo to como de Vedncsday next. But I
am arrive dere too late, and dey give me
noting, and tell me to come de Vednesdsy
next encore. Ma dogs dfy march now in de
street, and cat something dare. Oh! ma
God, tion ! dey eat noting but what dey find
in de street ven it makes good times; but
ven it makes bad times dey have noting at
all, poor dogs ! ven I have it, dey have it, —
but ven dere is noting for me to oat, dare is
not nig for dem, and dey must go out in de
streets and get de nouriture for themselves.
Des enfans vot know ma dogs vill give to dem
to eat sometimes. Oh! yes, if I had de
means, 1 would return to Italia, ma countree.
But I have not no silver, and not no legs to
walk. Vot can I do ? Oh ! jes, I am voy
sick at present. All my limbs have great
douleur — Oh, yes ! plenty of pain.**
CONCEBTINA PlJlYER ON THE StEAMBOATI.
" I WAS always very fond of music, and if efV
I heard any in the streets, I always followed
it about. I'm nearly fifteen now ; hot I en
remember when I was seven, being partiea-
larly taken with music. I had an uncle who
was captain of a steamer that run to Bidl-
mond, and I was always on board with hia;
and they used to have a band on board. It
wasn't in particular a passage-boat, but m
excursion one, and let to private parties, and
a band always went along with them. I wii
taken ahmg to run after orders for tlM
steward ; and when I had nothing to do, I
used to go and listen to them. I learn all
their tunes by heart. They mostly pli^fld
dances, and very seldom any sentimental
songs, unless anybody asked them. For nw-
self, I prefer lively tunes. I don't know modi
operatic music, only one or two airs; but'
they're easier to play on the concertina than
lively music, because it's difficult to move the
fingers very quickly. You can't hardly plm
a hornpipe. It makes the arm ache b^ora
you can play it all through, and it makes such
a row with the valve working the bellows iqp
and down, that it spoils the music.
*'*' I had not got my instrument when I was ia
this steamboat. 'When I heard a tune, I tued
to whistle it. I asked my father to buy mas
instrument but he wouldn't. I was always on
the steamboat, helping uncle; and I coold
have had lots of time to learn music there.
When they, the musicians, put the harp down
in the cabin, I'd get placing on it. There wai
a hole in the green baize cover of the hup,
and I used to put my hand in and work awsf
at it. I learnt myself several tunes, such as
the ' Sultan Polka.' I must have been eight
years old then. I didn't play it with both
hands : I couldn't do the bass.
** I never had any lessons in music. Prs
done it all out ()f my own head. Before I had ^
a concertina, I used to go about amusing my.
self with a penny tin whistle. I could play It
pretty well, not to say all tunes, but all sndi
as I knew I could play very well on it. The
* Ked, White, and Blue ' was my favouzits
tune.
" I have a brother, who is younger than I
am, and he, before he was ten, was put oat to
a master to learn the 'violin. Father's a
labourer, and does something of anything he
can get to do ; but bricklaying genendly. Ha
paid so much a quarter for having my brother
Henry taught. I think it was about IGs. s>
quarter. It was a great expense for father at
first ; but afterwards, when we was hard iqs
Henry coiUd always ily to the fiddle to earn a
crust. Heniy never took to music, not to si^
well. I can play more out of my own hssa
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
183
can by notes. He's a very good
rw.
8 about getting on for twelve when
rst bought me a concertina. That
nt was very fashionable then, and
y had it nearly. I had an accordion
out it was only a 1«. iid. one, and I
ce a fancy to it somehow, although I
y a few tunes on it. I used to see
»ut my own height carrying concer-
)ut the streets, and humming them,
wanted one. There was a little boy
he got one, and then I wanted one
Be used to come to our house, and
orts of tunes, for he played very well,
le concertina, because it's like a full
t's like haWng the fiddle and the harp
I used to ask this little boy to lend
instrument, and I'd work the keys
ittle, but I couldn't do any airs,
y entirely out of my own head, for I
d any lessons at alL I learn the
)m hearing other people playing of
f I hear a street band, such as a
1 harp and cornopean playing a tune,
them and catch the air; and if it's
3f a easy tune at all, I can pick it up
n, for I never want to hear it more
e played on an instrument.
St, after bothering father a long time,
t me a half-crown concertina. I was
len he brought it into my room, and
on the bed ; when I woke up I see it.
ly set to work, and before I had got
I learnt * Pop goes the Weasel.' I
pleased. I was up and dressed, and
, all day long. I never used to let
x>uch, not even my own father hardly,
tie should break it. I did break it
I then I was regular dull, for fear I
86 my tunes.
•k me six months before I could play
id then I could play a'most any tune
The fingers had learnt the keys, and
ere the notes was, so that I could
16 dark. My brother could play the
U, long before I could do any tunes.
to play together duets, such as *A
Boat unto the Ferry.' We never
3nt out together in the streets and
ther, only once or twice, because a
d a concertina don't sound well to-
iless a harp's with it, and then it's
I came to get on the steamboats was
ler went to take a trip up to Kew one
wanted to go, and he said if I could
fSare I might go. So I thought I'd
»)ncertina and tiy. So I went, and I
Ukt day about 9«., all in halfpence and
That was only by going up to Kew
ng back again. It was on a Whitsun-
Then I thought I'd do it again the
and I think I took about the same,
ept on them all together. I didn't
he Kew boats, because they had got
their regular musicians, and they complained
to the superintendent, and he forbid me going.
Then I went to the Woolwich boats, and I
used to earn a heap of money, as much as
10«. every day, and I was at it bSX the week for
the season.
" I usen't to pay any fare, but I got a free
pass. It was mostly the crow. When I got
out at the pier. I used to tell them I'd been
playing, and they would let me pass. Now I
know near every man that is on the river, and
they let me go on any boat 1 like. They con-
sider I draw customers, and amuse them
during the trip. They won't let some hardly
play on board only me, because I've been on "
them such a long time — these three years.
I know all the pier-masters, too, and they are
all very kind to me. Sometimes, when I'm
waiting for a boat to go up anywhere, I play
on the piers, and I always do pretty fair.
'* In winter I go on the boats all the same,
and I play down in the cabin. Some of the
passengers will object to it if they are reading,
and then 1 have to leave off, or I should put
my own self in a hobble, for they would go and
tell the captain ; and if he wouldn't say any-
thing, then they would tell the superintendent.
In winter and wet weather is my worst time ;
but even then I mostly take my 3«. In the
winter time, my best time is between three
o'clock and six, when the gentlemen are
coming home from office ; and I never hardly
come out before two o'clock. In summer its
good from twelve till eight o'clock. The pas-
sengers come to go to the Crystal Palace in
the morning part Those that are going out
for pleasure are my best customers. In the
summer I always take at the rate of about 6«.
a-day. Pleasure-people mostly ask me for
dancing times; and the gentlemen coming
from business prefer song tunes. I have got
a good many regular gentlemen, who always
give me something when they are coming
from business. There are some who give me
Qd, every day I see them ; but sometimes they
go up by a different boat to what I'm in.
There's one always gives me 6</., whether I'm
playing or not ; and it's about four o'clock or
half-past that I mostly see him.
" Li winter my hands gets very cold indeed,
so that I can scarcely feel the keys. Some-
times I can't move them, and I have to leave
off, and go down below and warm my hands at
the cabin fire.
** In the summer I sometimes go out with a
mate of mine, who plays the piccolo. He's
very clever indeed, and plays most extraordi-
naxy. He's a little bigger than me. He lives
by playing music in the boats. W^e don't play
in the streets. I never played in the streets
in my life. He don't play in the winter, but
works with his father, who makes hair-oil and
that, and sends it out in the country. He's a
regular perfumer; aj^d serves chandlers* shops
and that like.
** There's a tone we play together called the
184
L0NJ>OK LABOUR AND TBB LOiU)0» fOOE.
*Camp at Chobham/ It begins ^Ui my
doing the bugle, and he answers it on his fife.
Then we do it in the distance like. Then
come all the different marches the soldiers
march to. Some people are so fond of it,
that when they see us they come up and ask
us to give it them. It takes a good quarter of
an hour to play it When I'm with him, 1
earn about the same as when I'm alone ; but
I like to go with him, because it's company.
*' One of the songs I play is, * Mother, is the
battle over?' That's lately come out. It is a
lady's song, and they generally ask me for it.
They also ask me for &e Varsoyienne. At the
present time, the girls mostly ask me for
* PoUy, won't you tiy me, oh ! ' They like
anything that is new, if it is a very pretty
tune like * Polly, won't you try me, oh ! '
Sometimes I forget the tunes ; they go right
out of my head, and then, perhaps, a month
afterwards they'll come back again. Perhaps
I'll be fingering tlie keys, and I'll accidental
do the beginning of the air I'd forgot, and
then I remember it all of a sudden the same
as before. Then I feel quite glad that I've
got it back again, and I'll keep on playing it
for a long time.
** When once I begin to play, I can scarcely
leave off. I used at first to play as I went
along the streets, but now I fieel too tired to
do it. If I haven't been out in the boats, I
must have a play just the same. I like it very
much. I don't like any of the other instru-
mcnts, now I've learnt this one so welL The
fiddle is pretty good, but nothing, to my fancy,
Uke the concertina.
" The concertina I use now cost mo 16«.
It's got twenty double keys — one when I pull
the bellows out and one when I close iu I
wear out an instrument in three months. The
edges of the bellows get worn out : then I
have to patch them up, till they get so weak
that it mostly doubles over. It costs me about
1<. a- week to have them kept in order. They
get out of tune very soon. They file them,
and put fresh notes in. I get all my repairs
done trade price. I tune my instrument
myself. The old instruments I sell to the
boys, for about as much as I give for a new one.
They are very dear ; but I get them so cheap
when I buy them, I only give 10«. for a 20«.
instrument.
" I've got a beautiful instrument at home,
and I give a pound for it, and it's worth two.
Those I buy come from Germany, where they
make them, and then they are took to this
warehouse, where I buy them.
" Once I was turned off the penny steam-
boats. There was such a lot of musicians
come on board, and they got so cheeky, that
when they was told not to play they would.
just the same, and so a stop was put to all
music on board. If one was stopped all must
be stopped, co I was told not to go. I still had
my fourpenny boats. I never used to go on
the penny boats hardly, for I never used to
get much money in th«m. Kowl mia
go on them just the same as before.
** I caa't say how often I've been i
Thames. I never go as far as Chelsea 1
only about twice a-day, for most of tike
get out between London-bridge and
ehns. My general run is down to Hun(
and back to Blackfriare; and I do that
fifty times a-day.
" I never go out on the Sunday. I
go to a Sunday-school, and then take i
Father wants me to be a scholar : I ei
and write. I'm a teacher at the S
school, and make the children read
lessons. I know multiplication, and ad
and all them. I go to school every ni
half-past six and come home at nine,
makes me and my brother go to school
day, and we pay 1«. each »-week. It's
p:()od school, and the master is very
There are about 30 night scholars a
day ones, besides about 20 girls. His da
teaches the girls.
'* At night when I leave school I (
play music three nights a- week at a bal
brother goes with me. Wegotoaplaoc
Westminster-road on Mondays, Wedm
and Thursdays. It's a very nice ball
and there are generally about 200
They pay 1«. each. There are four mac
a fiddle, a harp, a fife, and a conceiti]
isn't a Casino; it's an assembly-roomf
teaches on three nights in the week, a
pupils assemble and practise on ttaie
nights.
** The room is like a street almost, i
music sounds well in it. The othei
play from notes, and I join in. I lean
airs this way. My mother and fathe
very fond of dancing, and they used
there nearly every night, and I'd go
with them, and then I'd Usten and lai
tunes. My brother regularly played
He was about ten years old when 1:
went to play there ; but he could pi
music that was put before him. In U
time he blows the bellows at a blac
and engineer's. The first time I pUyc
orchestra I felt a little strange. I had 1
rehearsal. I went twenty times before
confident enough to appear at night,
play the tunes well enough, but I didn'
when to leave off at the exact time th
At last I learnt how to do it. I don't ha
stand before me. I never look at any
others' music. I look at the dancing,
got to look at the time tliey're dancing i
watch their figures when they leave ofi
proprietor knew father, and that's how '.
to have the job. I get 24. Gd, a-nig
plaj-ing there, and plenty to eat and
There's bread and cheese and a drop o
On the other three nights when I'm not
ball I stop at home, and get a bit c
Father sends us to bed early, about ha
nine, when I come home from schoo
ZOKBOK LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOS.
189
baU-nights rm sometimea up to two o'clock in
tUe moming.
** I take all the money I earn home to father,
and he gives me a few halfipence for myself.
All the year round it comes to 5«. a-dny. I
buy my own food when I'm out on the boats.
I go to a cookshop. I like pudding or pie
better than anything, and next to that I like
a bit of bread and butter as well as anything,
except pie. I have meat or veal pi(;s. They
ehargo you Qd, a-plate, and you have potatoes
•od all. .fVftcr that I have a couple of pen orth
of pudding with sugar. I drink water. My
dinner comes to about 9<i. a-day, for I genonilly
liave a pen'orth of apples as dessert Itmnkes
you very hungry going about in the steam-
boats— very much so.
*• I'm tlie only boy that goes about tho
BtPara-boats with a concertina ; indeed, I'm the
only boy above-bridge that goes abrnit with
music at all on the boats. I know the old
gentleman who plays the harp at the Essex
Eier. I often go and join in with him when I
md there, and we go shares. He mostly
plays there of a moming, and we mostly of an
tficmoon. We two are tho only ones that
play on the piers."
TOK-TOM PlATEHS.
Wtthtn the last few years East Indians play-
inn on the tom-tom have occasionally mrnie
thf ir appearance in the London streeti). The
hidian or Lascar crossing-sweepers, who
earned their living by alternately plying the
hrwtm and sitting as models to artists — tho
» Indian converted to Christianity, who, in his
calico clothes, with his brown bosom showing,
mw seen, particularly on cold days, croucliing
on the pavement and seUing tracts, have
latvly disapi>caro{l from our Ijighways, and in
thi-ir sieatl the tom-tom players have made
their appearance.
I saw two of these performers in one of tho
WvMt-end streets, creeping slowly down the
ceutfi; of the road, and b<*ating their drums
with their hands, whilst they drawled out a
kind of moumftd song. Their mode of
parading the streets is to walk one following
the ntbiT, beating their oystcr-harrel-shaped
dmms with their hands, which they make llap
aU>ut from the wrist like flounders out of
water, whilst they continue their droning
Bong, and halt at every twenty paces to look
round.
One of these performers was a haudsome
lad, with a face such as I have seen in the
drawings of the princes in the " Arabian Nights
Kutertainments." He had a copper skin and
long black hair, which he brushed behind his
ears. On his head was a white turban, msule
to cock over one ear, like a hat worn on ono
side, and its rim stood out like the stopper to
a scent-bottle.
The costume of the man greatly resembled
, tW of ft gentleman wearing his waistcoat out-
side his shirt, only tho waisteoat was of green
merino, and adorned with silk embroidery, his
waist being bound in with a scarf. Linen
trowsors and red knitted cuffs, to keep his
Avrists worm, completed his costume.
This man was as tall, slim, and straight,
and as gracefully proportioned, as a bronze
image. His face had a serious, melancholy
h^ok, which seemed to work strongly on tho
feelings of the niurses and the ser\'ant-girls who
stopped to look at him. His companion,
although dressed in the same costume, (tho
only difference being that the colour of his
waistcr)at was red instead of green,) formed a
comiral contrast to his sentimental Othello-
loftking partner, for he was wliat a Yankee
would call " a rank nigger." His face, indeed,
was as black and elastic-looking as a printer's
dabber.
The name of the negro- boy was Peter. Be-
yond '* Yes" and *' No," he appeared to be per-
fectly unacquainted with the Enghsh language.
His Othello friend was 17 years of age, and
fi])oko English perfectly. I could not help
taking great interest in tliis lad, both from tho
pecuharity of his conversation, which turned
chiefly upon the obedience due from children
to their parents, and was almost fanatical in
its tlieory of perfect submissicm, and also from
his singularly handsome countenance; for
his eyes were almond-shaped, and as black as
eM(T-berries, whilst, as he spoke, the nostrils
of his aquilino nose beat like a pulse.
When 1 attempted to repeat after them one
of their Indian songs, they both burst out into
uproarious merriment. Peter rolling about in
his chair like a serenader playing *' the bones,"
and the young Othello laughing as if he was
being tickled.
In speaking of the duties which they owed
to their parents, tho rules of conduct which
they laid down as those to he followed by a
good son were wonderful for the completeness
of the obedience which they held should be
paid to a father's commands. They did not
seem to consider that the injunctions of a
mother should be looked upon as sacredly as
those of the male parent. They told me that
tho soul of the child was damned if even he
disputed to obey the father's command,
althouffh he knew it to be wrong, and contrary
to God's laws. "-iVllah," they said, would
xnsit any wickedness that was committed
through such obedience upon the father, but
he would bless the child for his submission.
Their story was as follows : —
•♦ Most of the tom-tom players arc Indians,
but we are both of us Arabs.' Tlie Arabs are
ju«5t equally as good as the Indians at playing
the tom-tom, but they haven't got exactly to
tho learning of the manufacture of them yet.
I come from Mocha, and so does Peter, my
companion; only his father belongs to what
we call the Abshee tribe, and that's what makes
him so much darker than what I am. Tho
Abshee tribe are now outside of Arabia, up by
186
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
the Golf of Persia. They are much the
same as the Mucdad people, ^^ it's all the same
tribe like.
** My name is Usef Asman, and my father
has been over here twelve years now. He came
here in the English army, I've heard him say,
for he was in the 77th Bengal Native Infantry ;
but he wasn't an Indian, but enlisted in the
service and fought through the Sikh war, and
was wounded. He hasn't got a pension, for
he sent his luggage through Paris to England,
and he lost his writings. The East India
Company only told him that he must wait un-
til they heard fh>m India, and that's been
going on for now six years.
** Mother came homo with father and me,
and two brothers and a sister. I'm the se-
cond eldest. My brother is thirty-six, and he
was in the Crimea, as steward on board the
Hoyal Hydaspes, a steam screw she is. He was
17 and I was G years old when I came over.
My brother is a fine strapping fellow, over six
feet high, and the musdes in his arms are as
big round as my thigh.
*•*■ I don't remember my native country, but
Peter does, for he's only been here for two
years and five months. He likes his own
country better than England. His father left
Arabia to go to Bombay, and there he keeps
large cofiee-shops. He's worth a little money.
His shops are in the low quarter of the town,
just the same as Druiy Lane may be, though
it's the centre of the town. They call the
place the Nacopoora taleemoulla.
" Before father went into the army he was
an interpreter in Arabia. His father was a
horse-dealer. My father can apeak eight or
nine different languages fluently, besides a
litUe of others. He was the interpreter who
got Dr. Woolfe out of Bokhara prison, when
he was put in because they thought he was a
spy. Father was sent for by the chief to ex-
plain what this man's business was. It is the
Mogul language they speak there. My father
was told to get him out of the country in twenty-
four hours, and my father killed his own horse
and camel walking so hard to get him away.
" We was obliged to put ourselves up to
Soing about the streets. Duty and necessity
rst compelled me to do it. Father couldn't
get his pension, and, of course, we couldn't
sit at home and starve ; so father was obliged
to go out and play the drum. He got his tom-
toms from an Arab vessel which came over,
and they made them a present to him.
"We used before now, father and myself,
to go to artists or modelers, to have our like-
nesses taken. We went to Mr. Armitage,
when he was painting a battle in India. If
you recollect, I'm leaning down by the rocks,
whilst the others are escaping. I've also been
to Mr. Dobson, who used to Uve in Newman-
street I've sat to him in my costume for
several pictures. In one of them I was like a
chief's son, or something of that, smoking a
hubble-bubble. Father used to have a deal of
work at Mr. Gale's, in Fitzroy-square. Idont
know the subjects he painted, for I wasnt
there whilst father used to sit It used to
lire me when I had to sit for two or three hours
in one position. Sometimes I had to strip to
the waist. I had to do that at Mr. Dobson's
in the winter time, and, though there was a
good fire in the room, it was very wide, and it
didn't throw much heat out, and I used to be
very cold. Ho used to paint religious subjects.
I had a shilling an hour, and if a person could
get after-work at it, I coidd make a better li>ing
at it than in the streets ; in fact, I'd rather do
it any time, though it's harder work, for there
is a name for that, but there is no name for
going about playing the tom-tom ; yet it's bet-
ter to do that than sit down and see other
people starving.
'* Father is still sitting to artists. He
doesn't go about the streets — he couldn't face
it out.
It's about eight years ago since father got
the tom-toms. They are very good ones, and
one of them is reckoned the best in England.
They are made out of mango tree. It grows
just the same as the bamboo tree ; and they
take a joint of it, and take out the pith — for
it's pithy inside, just like elderberry wood,
with the outside hi^i. Father had these tom-
toms for a month before we went out with
them.
*•* The first day father went out with me.
and kept on until he got employ ; and then I
went out by myself. I was about for four
years by myself, along with sister ; and then I
went with Peter ; and now we go out together-
My sister was only about seven years old when
she first went out, and she used to sing. She
was dressed in a costume with a short jacket^
with a tight waistcoat, and white trowsers.
She had a turban and a sasli.
" When we first went out we dono very
well. Wo took 6, 7, or 8#. a-day. Wo was
the first to appear with it ; indeed there's only
mc and my cousin and another man that
does it now. Peter is my cousin. His real
name is Busha, but wc call him Peter, bC'
cause it's more a proper name like, because
several jMJople can call him that when they
can't Busha. We arc all turoed Christians ;
wo go to school every Sunday, in Great
Queen -street, Lincohi's Inn, and always to
chapel. They are joined together.
" I and Peter take now, on a fine day in
summer-time, generally 5 or 6s., but coming
on winter as it does now it's as much as we
can do to take 2«. or 9«. Sometimes in winter
we don't take more than 1#. 6rf., and some-
times 1#. Take the year round it would come,
I should think, to d«. a-day. On wet days
we can't do nothing.
"We were forced to become Christians
when we came here. Of course a true Mus-
sulman won't toko anything to eat that has
been touched by other people's hands. We
were forced to break caste. The beasts were
LOyj>OU LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
187
ilAoghteied by other peojile, and we wanted
meat to eat. The bread, too, was made by
Christians. The school-teachers used to
come to father. We remained as Mussulmen
as long as we conld, bat when winter camo
on, and we had no money, wo was obliged to
eat food from other people's hands.
*' Peraona wouldn't believe it, but little
£uiuly as we are it takes 4«. o-day to keep us.
Yet mother speaks English weU. I'm sure
£rther doesn't goont and drink not half-a pint
a beer of a night, but always waits till we
come home, and then our 3«. or 4«. go to get
bread and rice and that, and we have a pot
of beer between us.
*' Peter's father married my father's sister,
that^s how we are cousins. He come over
by ship to see ua. He sent a message before
to say that he was coming to see his uncle,
and he expected to go back by the same ship,
but he was used so cruelly on board that he
preferred staying with us until we can all
return together. Because he couldn't under-
stand English and his duty, and coming into
a cold country and all, he couldn't do his
work, and they flogged him. Besides, they
bad to summon the captain to get their
lights. He very much wonts to get back to
India to his father, and our family wants to
get back to Mocha. I've foiigot my Arabic,
and only talk Hindostonee. I did speak
French very fluently, but I've foiigot it all
except such things as Yenez id, or Youlez-
vous danscr ? or such-like.
** When we are at home we mostly oat rice.
Kb very cheap, and we like it better than any-
thing else, because it fills our bellies better.
It wouldn't be no use putting a couple of half-
quartern loaves before us two if we were
bongry, for, thank God, we are very hearty-
eating, both of us. Bice satisfies us better
tban Ifread. We mix curry-powder and a
little meat or fish with it If there's any fish
in season, such as fresh hnrrings or mackerel,
we wash it and do it with onions, and mix
it with the curr>'-powder, and then eat it with
lice. Plaice is the only fish we don't use, for
it makes the curry very wcitery. We wash the
tice two or three times after looking over it to
take out any dirt or stones, and then we boil
it and let it bctil about five minutes. Rice-
water is very strengtheninpr, and the ^Vrabs
drink a deal of it, because whenever it lays in
the stomach it becomes Holid. It turns, when
cold, OS thick as starch, and -M-ith some salt
it's not a bad thing.
"* Our best places for playing the tom-tom
is the West-end in summer-time, but in winter
we goes round by Islington and Shoreditch,
&nd such-like, for there's no quality at home,
and wo have to depend on the tradespeople.
Sometimes we very often happen to meet
^th a gentleman — when the quality's in town
—who iias been out in India, and can speak
the language, and he will begin chatting with
us and gi>0 ua a shilling, or sometimes more.
I've got two or three ladies who have taken a
fancy to us, and they give me 6rf. or 1*. when-
ever I go round. There's one old lady and
two or three young ones, at several houses in
different places, who have such kindness for
us. I was in place once with Captain Hines,
and he was very kind to me. He had been
out in India, and spoke the language vexy
fluently. I didn't leave him, ho left me to go
to the Crimea ,* and he told me he was very
sorry, but he had a servant allowed him by
the (Government, and couldn't take me.
" Some of the servant-girls ore very kind
to us, and give us a \d, or 2d. We in general
tries to amuse the people as much as we can.
All the people are very fond of Peter, ho
makes them laugh; and the same people
generally gives us money when we goes round
again.
** When we are out we walk along side by
side beating the tom-toms. Wo keep on
singing different songs, — foreign ones to
English tunes. The most favourite tune is
what we calls in Hindostanee, —
' Toaa bi taaa, no be no
Mutra bakooch, no arber go ;
Toaa bi tasa, no be no
Attipa bo fjora puxmn
Mara gora gora cheloiiageon.
l\iaa bi taao. no be no.
O sunna key taho baroo
DiUa chuniTay gurroy kumahajroo.
Tiuvi bi taaa, no be no
Lutfellee karu basha bud
Bhibbe do lum aesta bud
loaa, bi tan, no bo no.'
" This means : —
« « I want something fresh (such as fish)
in the value of nine. And after he went and
bought these fresh goods ho looked at them,
and found them so good, that he was very
pleased with them (* mutra bakooch ' is
pleased), tliat he says to his servant that he
will give him leave to go about his business,
because he's made such a good bargain.'
*' That's all the meaning of that, sir, and we
sing it to its original Indian tune. We some-
times sing aVrab songs — one or two. They are
very diflercnt, but we can't explain them so
wcU as we con the Hindostanee. They're
more melancholy, and towards the parents
sentimental-like. There's one song they sing
in Arabia, that it puts them in that way they
don't know what they are doing of. They
begin the song, and then they bend the body
about and beat their knees, and keep on so
until they tumble off their chairs. They
nearly strangle themselves sometimes. It's
about love to their parents, and as if they left
them and went far away. It's a sort of a
cutting song, and very sentimental. There's
always a man standing in one comer, looking
after those singing, and when he sees them get
into a way, he reads a book and comes and
rouses them. He's a kind of magician-like.
Father sings it, and I know a verse or two of
it. Fve seen fhther and another man singing
188
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
it, and they kept on sec -sawing about, and at
last tliey both fell off the chair. We got aliule
water uiid sprinkled their faces, and hit them
on the back very hard, and said, * Salleo a
nabbec/ wliich is just the same as * Kise, in the
name of tlie Loxxi,' and they came to instantly,
and after they got up was vcr}* calm — ah, very
tame ulterwards !
^ The tom-tom hasn't got much music in it
beyond beating like a drum. There are first-
rate players in India, and they can make the
tom-tom speak in the same way as if you was
to ask a gentleman, ^ How do you do?' and
they'll answer you, * Very well, thank you.'
They only go to the feasts, which are called
' mad^Kolc^s/ aiid then the noblemen, after
heahii;; them, will give them great sums of
money as u haudsuine present. The girls,
t^jo, daiK-e to the tom-tom in India. Peter is
a ver}' gdod player, and he can make the tom-
tom Xi> uns>wer. One side of the drum asks
Uio question, that is tlie treble side, and the
bass one answers it, for in a tom-tom each
end gives a different note.
^ Father makes all our clothes for us. We
wear flannel under our shirts, which a lady
made me a prosciit of, or else we never used to
wear them before. All through that sharp
nintor we never used to wear anything but
our dress. All the Arab boys are brought up
to respect their parents. If they don't they
will be punished. For myself, I always obey
mine. My father has often called shame on
the laws of tliis country, to hear the children
abusing tlieir parents. In our country, if a
son disobeys his father's command, he may,
even though the child be as tall as a giant,
take up his sword and kill him. My brother,
who is on board ship, even though he has
learnt the laws of this country, always obeys
my father. One night be wouldn't mind what
was said, so my father goes up and hit him a
side slap on the chops, and my brother turned
tlie other cheek to him, and said in Arabic,
* Father, hit this cheek, too; I have done
wrong.' He was about 30 then. Father said
he hoped he'd never disobey his orders again.
" The Arabs ore very clean. In our countxy
we bathe tlirec times a-day ; but over here we
only go to the buth in Endcll-street (a public
one) twice a-week. Wo always put on clean
things tlircc times a- week.
** There's a knack in twisting the turban.
A regular Arab always makes the rim bind
over the right ear, like Peter's. It don't Uke
more than five minutes to put the turban on.
W'e do it up in a roll, and have nothing inside
it to stiffen it. Some turbans have 30 yards
in them, all silk, but mine is only 3| yards,
and is calico. The Arab waistcoat always has
a pocket on each side of the breast, with a
length wuys opening, and a bit of braid round
the ed^e of the stuff, ending where the waist
is, so that the flaps ore not bound.
^ The police ore very kind to us, and never
interfere with us unless there is somebody ill,
and we are not aware of H. The tom-tom
makes a very humming sound, and is heaid to
a great distance."
AxoTHEB *' Tox-Toif ** Pliteb.
A VERT handsome man, swarthy even for i
native of Bengal, with his black glos^ hur
most picturesquely disposed, alike on his head
and in his whiskers and moustache, gave me,
after an Oriental salute, the following state-
ment His teeth were exquisitely white, and
his laugh or smile lighted up his countenance
to an expression of great intelligence. His
dress was a garb of dark-brown cloth, fitting
close to his body and extending to his knee.
His trowser^ were of the same coloured cloth»
and he wore a girdle of black and white cotton
round his waist. He was accompanied by his
son, (whom he sometimes addressed in Hin-
doostanee), a round-faced boy, witli large
bright black eyes and rosy cheeks. The father
said: —
*' I was bom in Calcutta, and was Mussul-
man— my parents was Mussulman — but I
Christian now. I have been in dis contree
ten year. I come first os servant to miliidrr
officer, an Englishman. I lived wit him in
Scotland six, seven roont. He left Scotland,
saying he come back, but he not, and in a
mont I hear ho dead, and den I com London.
London is very great place, and Indian city
little if you look upon London. I use tink it
plenty pleasure look upon London as de great
government place, but now I look upon Lon-
don, and it IS plenty bod pleasure. I wuh
very of^n return to my own contree, where
eveiyting sheap— living sheap, rice sheap. I
suffer from climate in dis contree. 1 suffer
dis winter more dan ever I did. I have no
flannels, no drawer, no waistcoat, and have
cold ui>on my chest. It is now near five year
I come London. I try get service, but no get
service. I have character, but not from my
last master. He could not give me ; be dead
ven I want it. I put up many insult in dis
contree. I struck sometime in street. Ma-
gistrate punish man gave me blow dat left
mark on my chin here. Gentlemen sometime
save me from harm, sometime not. De boye
call me black dis or de oder. Wen I get no
service, I not Uve, and I not beg in street, so I
buy tom-tom for 10*. De man want 80».
De I0«. my last money left, and I start to play
in streets for daily bread. I beat tom-tom,
and sing song about greatness of God, in my
own language. I had den wife. Englishwoman,
and dis little boy. I done pretty well first wid
tom-tom, but it is very bad to do it now. Wen
I began first, I make 3«., 4«., ft»., or ««. n-day.
It was someting new den, but nine or ten
monts it was someting old, and I took less
and less, until now I hardly get piece of bread.
I sometime get few shilling ttom two or three
picture-men, who draw me. ft is call model.
Anyting for honest bread. I must not be
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
180
proad. I cannot make above R«. a-week of
tom-tom in street. Dare is, well as I know,
about fifty of mj contreemen playing and
beg^Dg in streets of London. Dose who
sweep crossing are Malay, some Bengal. Many
are impostor, and spoil 'spectable men. My
contreemen live in Icniging-house ; often many
are plenty blackguard lodging-houses, and dere
respectable man is always insult. I have room
for myself dis tree mont, and cost me tree
shilling and sixpennies a-week ; it is not own
furniture ; dey bum my coke, coal, and candle
too. My wife would moke work wid needle,
bat dere is no work for her, poor ting. She
servant when I marry her. De little boy make
jump in my con tree's way wen I play tom-
tom— he too little to dance — ho six year. Most
of my contreemen in street have come as Las-
ear, and not go back for bosen and bosen-
loaie, and flog. So dey stay for beg, or sweep,
or anyting. Dey are never i)ickpocket dat I
ever hear of."
Perforjier on Drum and Pipes.
A STOUT, reddish-faced man, who wm familiar
with all kinds of exhibitions, and had the
coaxing, deferential manner of many persons
who ply for money in the streets, gave me
an account of what he called ** his experience"
as tlie '* drum and pipes :" —
^ I have played the pondean pipes and the
drum for thirty years to street exhibitions of
all kinds. I was a smith when a boy, serving
seven years' apprenticesliip ; but after that I
married a young woman that I fell in love
irith, in the music line. She played a hurdy-
gurdy in the streets, so I bought pandean
pipes, as I was always fbnd of practising
music, and I joined her. Times for street-
musicianers were good then, but I was foolish.
Im aware of that now ; but I wasn't particu-
larly partial to hard work ; besides, I could
make more as a street-musicianer. When I
first started, my wife and I joined a fantoccini.
It did well. My wife and I made from Qs. to
10*. a-day. We had half the profits. At that
time the public cxliibitions were different to
what they are now. Gentlemen's houses
were pood then, but now the profession's sunk
to street comers. Bear-dancing was in vogue
then, and clock-work on the round board, and
Jaek-i'-the-green was in aU his glory every
May, thirty years ago. Things is now very
dead indeed. Li the old times, only sweeps
were allowed to take part with the Jack ; they
^cre particular at that time ; all were sweeps
but tlie musicianers. Now it's everybody's
money, when there's any money. Every
sweep showed his plate then when perform-
ing. • My lady ' was anybody at all likely that
they could get hold of; she was generally a
Watercress-seller, or something in the public
way. *My lady' had 2s. Od. a-day and her
keep for three days — that was the general
hire. The boys, who were climbing-boys,
had Is. or 6d., or what the master gave
them ; and they generally went to the pUy
of a night, after washing themselves, in
course. I had 0«. a-day and a good dinner
— shoulder of mutton, or something prime —
and enough to drink. *My lord' and the
other characters shared and shared alike.
They have token, to my knowledge, ^i. on
the 1st of May. This year, one set, with
two * My ladies,' took 3/. the first day. The
master of the lot was a teetotaler, but the
others drank as they liked. Ho turned tee-
totaler because drink always led him into
trouble. The dress of the Jack is real ivy
tied round hoops. The sweeps gather the
ivy in the country, and make the dresses at
their homes. My lord's and the other dresses
are generally kept by the sweeps. My lord's
dress costs a mere trifle at the second-hand
clothes shop, but it's gold-papered and orna-
mented up to the mark required. "What I
may call war times, such as *The White
Cockade,' the * Downfall of Paris,' (I've been
asked for that five or six times a-day — I don't
rememberthe composer), 'Bonaparte's March,'
and the *Duke of York's March,' were in
vogue in the old times. So was * Scots wha
hae ' (very much), and * Off she goes ! ' Now
new tunes come up every day. I play waltzes
and pokers now chiefly. They're not to com-
pare to the old tunes; it's like playing at
musicianers, lots of the tunes now-a-days.
I've played with Michael, the Italy Bear.
I've played the fife and tabor with him. The
tabor was a little drum about the size of my
cap, and it was tapped with a little stick.
There are no tabors about now. I made my
75. or 8s. a-day with Michael. He spoke bro-
ken English. A dromedary was about then,
but I knew nothing of that or the people;
they was all foreigners together. Swinging
monkeys were in vogue at that time as well. I
was with them, with Antonio of Saffron Hill.
He was the original of the swinging monkeys,
twenty years ago. They swing from a rope,
just like slack -wire dancers. Antonio made
money and went back to his own country.
He sold his monkeys, — there was three of
them, — small animals they were, for 70/. to
another foreigner ; but I don't know what be-
came of them. Coarse jokes pleased people
long ago, but don't now ; people get more en-
lightened, and think more of chapel and
church instead of amusements. My tratle is
a bad one now. Take the year through, I
may make 12*. a-week, or not so much ; say 1 Os.
I go out sometimes playing single, — that's by
myself, — on the drum and pipes; but it's
thought nothing of, for I'm not a German.
It's the same at Brighton as in London ; brass
bands is all the go when they've Germans to
play them. The Germans will work at 2». a-
day at any fair, when an Enghshman will
expect Qs. The foreigners ruin this country,
for they have more privileges than the EngUsh.
The Germans pull the bells and knock at the
100
ZONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON ^OOR.
doors for money, vhicli an Englishman has
hardly face for. I'm now wiUi a fantoccini
figures from Canton, brought over by a
seaman. 1 can't form an exact notion of how
many men there arc in tO¥ru who are musician-
era to the street exhibitions ; besides the oxhi-
bitions' own iieople, I should say about one hun-
dred. 1 don't think that they are more drun-
ken than other people, but they're liable to get
top-heavy at times. None that I know live with
women of the town. They live in lodgings,
and not in lodging-houses. Oh ! no, no,
we've not come to that yet. Some of them
succeeded their fathers as street-musiciauers ;
others took it up casalty-Uke, by having learn-
ed different instruments; none that I know
were ever theatrical performers. All the men I
know in my lino would objaot, I am sure, to
hard work, if it was with confinement along
with it. We can never stand being confined
to hard work, after being used to the freedom
of the streets. None of us save money ; it
goes i'ither in a lump, if we get a lump, or
in dribs and drabs, which is tlie way it mostly
comes to uh. I've known several in my way
who have died in St. Giles's workhouse'. In
old age or sickness we've nothing but the parish
to look to. The newest thing I know of
is tlie singing dogs. I was with that as musi-
cian, and it answers pretty well amongst the
quality. The dogs is three Tobies to a Punch -
and- Judy shuw, and they sing, — that is, they
make a noise, — it's really a howl, — but they
keep Umo with Mr. Punch as he sings."
in.— STREET VOCALISTS.
The Street Vocalists aro almost as large a
body as the street musicians. It will be seen
that there are 00 Ethioy)ian serenaders, and
above 250 who live by baUud-siugiiig alone.
Street Neqbo Serenaders.
At present I shall deal with the Ethiopian
seronuders, and the better class of ballad-
singers. Two young men who are of tin;
former class gave tlie following account Loth
were dressed like decent mechanics, with per-
fectly clean faces, excepting a Uttle of the
professional black at the root of the hair on
the foreliead :-*
" We are niggers," said one man, •* as it's
commonly called; that is, negro melodists.
Nigger bands vai>' from four to seven, and
have numbered as many as nine ; our band is
now six. We all share alike. I (said the
same man) was the first who started the
niggers in \he streets, abour four years ago. I
took the hint from the performance of PeU and
the others at the St James's. When I first
started in the streets I had five performers, four
and myself. There were the bai]^o-player, the
bones, fiddle, and tambourine. We are regu-
larly ftiU-dressed, in fiishionaUe black coati
and trowsers, open white waiatcoats, pumps
(bluchers some had, just as they could spring
them), and wigs to imitate the real negro
head of hair. Large white wxists or cufis came
out after. It was rather a venturesome 'spec,
the street niggers, for I had to find all the
clothes at first start, as I set the achuul a-gdng.
Perhaps it cost me Q*. a-head all nmnd— u
second-hand dress except the wigs, and eadi
man made his own wig out of hone-hair d|yed
black, and sown with black thread on to the
skin of an old silk hat Well, we first Btarted
at the top uf the liverpool-road, but it was no
gnrnt suoccsH, as we weren't quite up in oar
parts and didn't iilay exactly into one anothefl
hands. None of us were perfect, we'd had id
few rehearsals. One of us had been a street
singer before, another a street fiddler, another
had sung nigger-songs in public -houses, the
fourth was a mud-lark, and I had been t
street singer. I was brought up to no trade
n'giilarly. When my father died I was left on
the world, and I worked in Marjlcbone stone-
yartl, and afterwords sung about the streets, or
sliiftcd as I could. I first sung in the streets just
before the Queen's coronation — and a hard lifb
it was. But, to tell the truth, I didn't like the
thoughts of hardlaliour — bringing a man in so
little, too — that's where it is ; and as soon as
I «'ould make any sort of living in the streets
^ith singing and such-like, I got to like it
The first •debew,' as I may say, of the niggers,
bronglit us in about IO5. among us, be^ddes
paying fi>r our dinner and a pint of beer
a-piiHje. We were forced to bo steady you see,
sir, as wo didn't kn(»w liow it would ans^fer.
We sung from eleven in tlie morning till half-
past ten at ni<^'ht, summer time. We kept on
da^' after day. not rehearsing, but practising in
tiie streets, for rehearsing in private was of
little use — voices are as different in private
rooms and the public sti-eets as is chalk fVom
cheese. We got more confidence as we weut
along. To be sure we had all cheek enough
to start M-ith, but this was a fresh line of busi-
ness. Times mended as we got better at onr
work. Last year was tlie best year Pve known.
We start generally about ten, and play till it's
dork in fine weather. We averaged U
a- week last year. The evenings are the
beat time. Regent-street, and Oxford-street,
and the greater part of St James's, are our best
places. The gentry arc our best customers
but wo get more from gentlemen tlian from
ladies. The City is goo<l, I fancy, but they
won't let us work it ; it's only the lower parts,
Whitecliapel and Smithfteld ways, that we
have a chance in. Business and nigger-songs
don't go well togetlier. The first four days of
the week are pretty much alike f(»r our busi-
ness. Friday is bad, and so is Satuniaj', until
night comes, and we then get money lixim the
working people. The markets, such as Cle\'C-
land-street, Fitzroy-squaro (Tottenh. am -court-
rood's no good at any time). Caruaby-morkct, I
LQifDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
IXL
irt-market. Great ^^Uxyleboiie-street, and
Igawaie-road, are good Saturday nights.
Ustreet is middling. The New-cat is as
[dace as can be. When we started, the
we knew was ' Old Mr. Coon.' * Bofijedo
' Ooing ober de Mountain/ *X>andy Jim
olina,' 'Bowlj Boly 0/ and < Old Johnny
r.* We studs to them a twelvemonth.
Builalo Gals' was best liked. The
i' — we^ve real bones, hb-of-beef bones,
me have ebony bones, which sound bet-
n lib-bones — they tell best in * Going
e Mountain,' for there's a symphony be-
every line. It's rather diffioidt to yhy
oes well ; it requires hard practice, and
igB the skin off; and some men have
tf but with so little success that they
their bones and flung them away. The
is the hardest to learn of the lot We
uept changing our songs all along ; but
)f the old ones are still sung. The other
ites are, or were, ' Lucy Neole,' ^ 0,
oah,' ' Undo Ned,' ' Stop dat Knocking,'
er Blue,' and < Black-eyed Susannah.'
s are not so good as they were. V/e can
;e 1/. a-piece now in the week, but it's
er-time, and we can't make that in bad
2r, Then tlierc's so many of us.
'8 the Somcr'8-town *mob' now in Lon-
the King-street, the four St. Giles's
thoKast-end (but they're white niggers),
t> W^estminater mobs, the Maiylebone,
10 Whitechapcl. Wo interfere with one
o's beats sometimes, for we have no
lemeub with each other, only we don't
ner. the others when they're at work.
en mobs now ia London will have 00
Q I im at least ; and there's plenty of
lers, who are not regular niggers:
. so many dodges now topick up a
sir. The Marylebone and Whitechapol
ay at nights in penny theatres. I have
in the Uaj-market in ' the New Planet,'
lare's no demand for us now at the
es, except such as the Pavilion. There
1 sorts of characters in the different
B, but I don't know any runaway gen-
i, or any gentleman of any kind among
. one ; we're more of a poorer sort, if not
a ragged sort, for some are without shoes
:kings. The * niggers ' that I know have
*rnmd-boys, street-singers, turf-cutters,
avers, chandlers, paviours, mud -larks,
, slioemakers, tinmen, bricklayers' la-
's, and people who have had no line in
liar but their wits. I know of no con-
I with pickpockets, and don't believe
is any, though pickpockets go round the
; but the poUco fling it in our teeth that
K>nnected with pickpockets. It's a great
to us is such a notion. A good many of
iggers — both of us here likes a little
-drink as hard as they can, and a good
of them live with women of the town.
are married. Some niggers are Irish,
's Scotdi niggers, too. 1 don't know a
Welsh one, but one of the street niggor-aiDgeKB
tt a real black — an AMcan."
firaXSllEMT OF AM OTBSB EtHIOFZAJI
SSRENADEB.
•<Ix must be ei^ht years ago," he commenced,
^ since Uie Ethiopian serenading come up —
aye, it must be at least that time, because the
twopenny boats was then running to London-
bridge, and it was before the ' Cricket' was
blown up. I know that, because we used to
work tlie boats serenading. I used to wear a
yellow waistcoat, in imitation of them at the
St. James's Theatre.
** The flrst came out at St James's Theatre,
and they made a deal of money. There were
five of them — Pell was bones, Harriugton was
concertino, I think. White was violin, Stan-
wood the bai^jo, and Germain the tambourine.
I think that's how it was, but I can easy ascer-
tain. After them sprang up the 'limtum
Sercnoders ' and the * Ohio Serenaders,' the
* SouUi Carolina Serenaders/ the * Kentucky
Minstrels,' and many other schools of them ;
but Pell's gang was at the top of the tree.
Juba was along with Pell. Juba was a first
class — a regulu^' A 1 — he was a regular black,
and a splendid dancer in boots.
**^Vssoon as I could get in to vamp the
tunes on the banjo a little, I went at it, too.
I wasn't long behmd them, you may take your
oath. We judged it would be a hit, and it was
fine. We got moro money at it then than we
do at any game now. First of all we formed
a scliool of three — two bauj os and a tambourine,
and after tliat we added a bones and a fiddle.
We used to dress up just the same tlien as
now. We'd black our faces, and get hold of a
white hat, and put a bluok band round it, or
have big straw hats and high collars up to the
ears. We did uncommonly well. The boys
would follow us for mdes, and were as good as
advertisements, for they'd shout, * Here's the
blacks ! ' as if they was trumpeting us. The
first songs we came out with were * Old Joe,'
* Dan Tucker,' and * Going ober de Mountain,'
and *0 come along, vou sandy boys.' Our
opening chorus was * The Wild Eacoon Track,'
and we finished up with the ' Railway OvcrtuzV
and it was more like the railway than music,
for it was all thumping and whistling, for no-
body knowed how to play the baiyo then.
** When I went out jaitching first I could
sing a good song ; but it has ruined my voice
now, for I used to sing at the top — tenor is
the professional term.
*' It wasn't everybody as could be a nigger
then. We was thought angels then. It's got
common now, but still I've no hesitation in
saying that, keep steady and sober, and it
works well to the present day. You can go
and get a good average living now.
**We could then, after our *mungare'and
< buvaie ' (that's what we call eat and drink,
and I think it's broken Italian ), cany home our
109
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOB.
&c. or 0«. each, easy. We made loDg days, and
did no night-work. Besides, we was always
veiy inditt'erent at our business, indeed. I'd
bo blowcd if I'd trust myself out singing as I
did then : we should get murdered. It was a
new thing, and peoplo thought our blunders
was intended. We used to use blacking then
to do our faces — ^we got Messrs. Day and
Martin to do our complexion then. Burnt
cork and beer wasn't so popular then.
** I continued at the nigger business ever
since. I and my mate have been out together,
and we've gonu out two, and three, or four,
up to eleven in a school, and we've shared
better when eleven than when we was two.
The highest we've got in a day has been 1/. Os.
each, at the l*urtsmouth roiew, when Napier
went out with tlie Heet, above two years ago.
We walked down to Portsmouth a-purpose.
Wo got 14j. 0</. each — and there was five of
us — at the launch of the * Albert'
^ The general dress of the nigger is a old
white hat and a Irmg-tailed coat; or some-
times, when we first come out, in white waist-
coats and coats ; or even in striped shirts and
wigs, and no hats at all. It's all according to
fancy and fashion, and what takes.
"When we go to a cheap concert-room,
such as the Albion, Ratcliffe-highway, or the
Ship and Camel, Bermondsey, our usual busi-
ness is to open with a chorus, such as * Happy
are we,' though, perhaps, we haven't had a bit
of grub all day, and been as wretched as pos-
sible ; and then we do a song or two, and then
' crack a wid/ as we say, that is, tell an anec-
dote, such as this : —
** Three old niggers went to sea on a paving-
stone. The first never had any legs, the next
never had any arms, and the other was strip
stark naked. So the one without any legs
said, * I see de bird ; so the one without any
arms took up a gun and shot it, and the one
without any legs run after it, and the one that
was strip stark naked put it in his pocket.
Now, you tell me what pocket that was?'
*' Then another says, * In his wainscoat
pocket.' Then I return, * How can he if he
was naked ? Can you give the inflammation
of that story ? Do you give it up ? * Then he
says, 'No, won't give it up.' Then I say,
* Would you give it up if you had it' Then he
says, * Yes ! ' and I reply, * The inflammation
of that is the biggest lie that ebber was told.'
'* Sometimes we do conundrums between
the songs. I ask, * Can you tell me how to spell
bUnd pi^ in two letters ?' and then he, remem-
bering the first stoiy, answers, ' Yes, the big-
gest lie that ebber was told.' * No, that's not
it' Then I continue, * P, g ; and if you leave
the i out it must be a blind pig, Jim.'
*' Then we go on with the concert, and sing
perhaps, * Going ober de Mountain ' and
* Mary Blane,' and then I ask sach conun-
drums as these:
*' * Why is mahogany like flannel ? ' ' Because
they are both used to manufacture into
drawers ;' and then we do this xiiyme^ ' Be*
cause mahogany makes drawers to pit your
clothes in, and flannel makes drawers to put
your toes in.'
" Perhaps we do another connndnun, mih
as this : — * Supposing you nigger was deed,
what would be the best time to buxy yon?*
One says, ' I shan't suppose.' Another w^
* I don't know.' And then I say, * Why, Un
latter end of the summer ;' and one asks, ' Wlqrj
Jim ?' * Because it's the best time for bla^.
berrying.' Then I cry out, * Now, you nigg«n^
go on with the consort;' and one of thoB
will add, * Now, Jim, well have that lemoe-
choly song of Dinaii Clare, that poor gid
that fell in the water-butt and got bnznt tB
death.'
** Another of our dialogues is this one>-*-
' Did I ebber tell you about that lemonehollj
occurrence, Maiy Blane, the young girlthit;
died last night in the house that was boned
down this morning, and she's gone to live in
a garret ?' * I shall call and see her.' * Yoi
canV * 'Cos why?' * 'Cos she moved fiat
where she lives now ; she's gone to live whtii
she used to come from.' ' Did you ever see hv
broderBill?' • No ; he's dead.' 'What! brodtf
Bill dead, too ?' Yes ; I seed him this tduxof
ing, and axed him how he was.' * Well, sad
what did he told you? ' * He told me he wm
wery well, thankye, and he was going to Hb
along with Dinah ; and he'd only been manied
three weeks. So I asked him how maiy
children he'd got He said he'd only got
one. So I said, ^ Dere something veiy din
about that, and I dont think all goes righi if
you was to have a son in three weeks.' So
he said, * Look you here, sir ; if the woild
was made in six days, it's debblish hard if m
can't make a son in three weeks.* * Go M
with the consort*
*' Another of our dialogues is this : ^ * Did
I ever tell yon, Jim, about my going ont
a-riding?' * Neber.' 'Well, then, ni told
you, I had two dollars in my pocket' * Had
you ?' * And I thought I'd do it gentlemaft-
tell-like.' * Yes.' * So I went to the libeiy
dealer.' * Who? ' The libery dealer— the
man that keeps the horses' stable.' ' Oh!
golly! you mean the stable-man.' *Ym.
Well, I axed him if he could lend me a hotie
to ride on ; ' so he said, he'd only got oae
horse.' * Wall ?' * And that was a grey mils.
I thought that would do just as welL * Of
course.' * And I axed him what that would
cost me? and he said he should charge me
two dollars for that — so I paid the two
dollars.' * Wall ? ' ' And he put me the spnxs
on my boots, and he put de bridle on the
horse's back.' * The bridle on the horse's
back! — ^what did he do with the bit? ' * He
neber had a bit at all ; he put the stirrups
in the mouth.' ' Now stop — you mean, he
put the saddle on the back, and the bridle
m the mouth.' ' I know it was something-
Den they put me on the saddle, and my feet
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
198
e.' ' You mean he put your foot
aps/ • So I wont out very well.'
-e begun for to galley, so I caught
i tunnel of the saddle.' *The
Yes, Jim, the tumrael.' * No, no ;
the pummel.' * Wall, hah it the
-ou Imows — but, but, I know, I'm
caught hold of the mane, and I
y YT&l till I come to a hill, when
egan to gollop hard down the hill,
1 was shy.' * What was she shy
saw a new-found-out-land dog
3 wood.' * A new.found-out-land
J the road ! ' * Yes ; so I thought
stop her: so I stuck my knees
le, and my spur into her, and by
ent too fast.' * And did she now ? '
died down and broke her knees.'
! ' • Aye, and pitched poor nigger
1; so I got up and tought I'd take
fa mare back to the stable. So
back I told the libbery man about
the stable-man.' * And he said
2L 10*.' * What for? ' * For re-
mare; so I said I wouldn't; so
would take me before the court,
le might take me down the alley,
so I thought I had better go and
Ji ob do law about it. So I went
ob the law's house and pulled at
and out comed the bell.' * No ;
pulled the bell, and out corned
. Wall?' *I said, Can you con-
de man ob de law at home ?' so
) he was out, but the man ob de
ras at home, so down she come.
[ wanted to insult the man ob de
le said. Insult me; I do just as
9 says, * Plane yourself.' So I said,
supposing you was a gray mare,
you for two dollars to ride you,
LS rader rusty, and went too fast
I wanted to stop you, and I stuck
I your side, and my spur into you,
led down and broke your knees,
'. help it ?' So she flung the door
and weut iu. So now go on with
aes, when we are engaged for it,
mcert-rooms and do the nigger-
ich is the some as the tableaux
Te illustrate the adventures of
• the life of a negro slave. The
L is when he is in the sugar-brake,
sugar cane. Then he is supposed
be weighed, and not being weight,
i to be flogged. My mate is then
orator and explaining the story.
I bit of business as ever was done,
it-and-out. You see, it's a new
he white ones. The next position
3 being flogged, and then when he
ige upon the overseer, and after-
he murders the overseer. Then
flight of Pompey, and so on,
ide with a variety of sctdptures
from the statues, such as the Archilles in
Hyde-park, and so on. This is really good,
and the finest bit of business out, and
nobody does it but me ; indeed it says in the
bill — if you saw it — 'for which he stands un-
rivalled.'
" We sometimes have a grecDhom wants to
go out pitching with us — a *mug,' we calls
them; and there's a chap of the name of
* Sparrow-back', as we c^ed him, because he
always wore a bob-tailed coat, and was a rare
swell ; and he \^ished to go out Ynih us, and
we told him he must have his head shaved
first, and Tom held him down while I shaved
him, and I took every bit of hair off him. Then
he underwent the operation of mugging him
up with oil-colour paint, black, and not for-
getting the lips, red. Ah, he carried the black
marks on him for two months afterwards, and
made a real washable nigger. We took him
with us to Camberwell fair, and on the way he
kept turning round and saying how strong he
smelt of turps, and his face was stiff. Ah, he
tp<u a serenader ! How we did scrub it into
him with a stiff brush ! When we washed at
a horse-trough, coming home, he couldnt get
a bit of the colour off It all dried round his
nose and eyes.
*• >Vhen we are out pitching, the finest place
for us is where there is anybody sick. If we
can see some straw on the ground, or any tan,
then we stays. We are sure to play up where
the blinds are down. When we have struck
up, we rattle away at the banjos, and down
will come the servant, saying, * You're to more
on; we don't want you.' Then I'll pretend
not to understand what she says, and I'll say,
* Mary Blane did you ask for ? 0 yes, cer-
tainly, Miss ;' and off we'll go into full chorus.
We don't move for less than a bob, for six-
pence ain't enough for a man that's ill. We
generally get our two shillings.
'* Sometimes gents will come and engage us
to go and serenade people, such as at wed-
dings or anything of that sort. Occasionally
young gents or students will get us to go to a
house late in the morning, to rouse up some-
body for a lark, and we have to beat away and
chop at the strings till all the windows are
thrown up. We had a sovereign given us for
doing that.
'* The Christmas time is very good for us,
for we go out as waits, only we don't black, but
only sing ; and that I bcheve — the singing, I
mean — is, I believe, the original waits. With
what we get for to play and to go away, and
what we collect on boxing Monday, amounts
to a tidy sum.
** There's very few schools of niggers going
about London now. I don't think there are
three schools pitching in the streets. There's
the Westminster school — they have kettle-
drums and music-stands, and never sings;
and there's the New Kent-road gang, or
Houghton's mob, and that's the best singing
and playing school out ; then a St. Giles's lot.
IM
LONDON LABOUR ASD THE LONDON POim.
but they are dickj— not worth much. The
SpiUlflulds school is broke up. Of course
tliera are otiier niggen going about, but to the
be»t of my calouiation there ain't more than 40
men scattered about.
** Houghton's gang make the tour of the
watering-places every year. Pve been to
Brighton with them, and we did pretty well
there in the fine season, making sure of 30«.
a^week a man; and it's work that continues
all the year round, for when it's fine weather
we do pitching, and when it's wet we divide a
school into parties of two, and go busking at
the public-huuscs."
The following comic dialogue was composed
by the "professional" who was kind enough
to favour mo with his statement:—
'*We arc finishing a song, and after the
song we generally do a sympathy, as we calls
it (a symphony, you know) ; and when I've
finished, Jim. my mntc, keeps on beating the
taml>ounne, as if he couldn't leave off. Then I
turn round to liim and say, * By golly, if you
don't leave otT, V\\ broke you over dc jaw.' He
answers, * Go on, dig a hole and buiy your-
self.' Then I say, *Why don't you 'splain
yourself properly.' Then ho kocps on playing
still, and I say, ' Can't you leave off", nigger?'
and ho roplii^s, * I'm ti^'inR to broke my trow-
sers.' Then ho leaves otf, and I say, * What
de debil <lo you do dat for?' and he says,
'Because I belong to de boulding (building)
society.' Then I puts another question, and
then begins this dialogue: —
" Hi) -says, * Pm going to sustire from dis
profession.' • What shfldl you do den?' * I'm
going to be a boulder.' ' Go along ! what
shall you build ? ' * I'm going to be a boulder
of trousers.' * By golly, you shall bould me a
pair den.' 'Well, den, how would you like
dcm made ? would you like dem with high-
pomted collars, full bozomed, and nice ivTist-
bands?* *What, do trowsems?' * Made of
lining nor calico?' * What I lining or calico
trowsems?' *Xo! shirt I' *Why, you neber
said a wonl about shirt ! ' 'By golly, yon did
though.' 'Well, don, bould me a shirt.' *Well,
den, how would yer like it? will you like it
with nice square toes, and bilingtaiy heels?'
* What! bilingtary heels shirts? ' * With a row
of hobnails?' Then I turn round in a passion,
and cry, * By golly, I cant stand this ! What !
hobnails shirt?' * No ; I was talking about a
pair of boots.' * Now, you neber said a word
about boots.' * Oh yes, I did.' Then I get
into a passion, and afterwards say, *Well,
bould me a pair of boots : now mind, you say
a pair of boots.' * Yes. Well, how would you
like dem boulded? Newmarket cut, rolling
collar, face of welwet?' Then I say, aside,
* W]iat ! rolling collar and faced with welwet
l)Oots?' and he continues, *With pockets in
de tail, and two row of gold buttons?* * >Vhat!
pockets in de tail, and two row of gold button
boots ? By golly, dat'a a coat.' * Yes ; didn't
you say a coat ? * « Neber spoke a w
coat in all my life. Did I?' (that tc
ence). * Yes, ob coone yer did.' T
into a passion again, but at last I n
den, bould me a coat.' *• Well, how ^
like it? with a nice high crown ?' T!
aside, *What! a high.crowned coat
a nice cork body, patent Paris nap,
lining, with a return-up rhnr * Whiu
rim coat ? Golly, dat's a hat !' ' Tas,
spoked a work about a hat.' «0h
now.' Then I get excited again ; b^
say, * Well den, bould me a hat' • '^
how would you like it? Seben st
with a nice green waterbutt behinc
nice palings round the garden?* •
palings round de garden of a hat?'
said de house.' * By golly, you said h
I said de house.' *By goUy, you s
Then we get into a terrific passior
gets up and hits my tambourine, and
golly, you said de house ! ' and I gi
hit him with the banjo on the head,
*By golly, you said a hat!' Thei
height of my excitement, I turn to
pie, and ask, * Didn't he say a hat?'
thoy don't answer, and I conclude I r
made a mistake, so I reply, * Well, d
me a house.' * Well, den,* how woulc
it made ? Of the best elm, with de in
plate on the hd, tree rows of nails,
dies at each side?' *Well, by goDj
coffin I • *Ya8, Jim.' *^Vhat do ji
wants a coffin for?' 'AVhy, because
in such a passion, I thought you'd
die.' Then I get sulky, and growl oi
den, go on wid de consort,' "
Street Glee-Sinoers.
An experienced street "s-ocalist of tl
kind, upon whose statements I sati:
self that every reliance might be pi
scribed to me the present conditio
calling. He was accompanied by his
" I have been in the profession of a
he said, " for twenty-five years. Be
I was a concert-singer. I was not br
to the profession ; I was a shipping a
I married a concert-singer, and then
the profession. I was young, and a lit
struck,"— ("Rather," said his wife,
" he was struck with those who wet
stage" ) — and so I abandoned the shi]
I have tried my fortune on the sti
singer, and can't say but what I 1:
ceeded. In fact, my wife and I ha
more than any two singers that h
appeared in the humble way. We hi
street vocalists for twenty-fiVe years,
solos, duets, and pices* and only t
When we started, the class of songs
difl'erent to what it is now. We we3
♦ the Royal Glee-singers.' * Cheny rip<
me by moonlight,' ' Sweet home,' were
then. Haynes Bailey's ballads were
LOimoy LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOB.
19»
*h of Bbhop's nasic; as, indeed, it is
arnetf s or Lee's mnsie, howcrer, is
re flpproved in the concert-rooms than
. Oiir plan wan, and is, to inquire at
en*s houses if thej wish to hear glee
inging, and to sing in the street or in
^ as well a? at porties. '^Vlien we first
ced we have made Si. and 3/. ]0j. in
this way ; but that was on extraor-
ccasioDs ; and 3/. a- week might be the
earnings, take the year thnnigh.
amings continued eight or ten years,
1 fell off. Oilier amusements attracted
u Now, my wife, my daughter, and I
ke 25«. u-week by open-air singing,
singing is extra, and the best payment
wn per ht;a«l a night for low-priced
. The inferior vocalists get 4a., 3».,
and some as low as 2«. Very many
% at con«!crts have received a high
education; but the profession is so
ked, that excellent singers iire com-
> take poor engagements." The beiter
heap concert-singers, the man and wife
■eed in stating, wore a well-conducted
people, often struggling for a very poor
ance, the women rarely being im-
haracters. •* Jiut now," said the bus-
John Bull's taste is inclined to the
ind filthy. Some of the • character
nich as * Sam Hall,* * Jack Sheppard,'
ns, are so indelicate that a respectable
rht not to take his wife and daughters
iiem. The men who sing character
re the worst class of singers, both as
eharacter and skill ; they are generally
UoVB ; some are what is called * fancy
ersons supportetl wliolly or partly by
of the town. I attempted once to give
; without these low-cbaracter singings ;
,d not sncceed. for I was alone in tlie
, I believe there are not more than
oten street vocalists of the same class
dves. They are respectable persons ;
Coinly open-air singing, as we practise
Mfe respectable than popular concert-
as now carried on. No one would be
to sing such songs in the streets. The
ter' concerts are attended generally
hanics and their families; tliere are
lales than females among the audi-
ET P.aijad-Sin'gkhs, or Chacntisrs.
eet classes that are still undescribed are
er class of street singcrsi, the Street
the AVriters without Hands, and the
Cxhibition-keepers. I shall begin with
»et Singers.
•ming the ordinary street ballad-singers,
ed the following account from one of
s: —
n what may be termed a regular street
Anger — either sentimental or comic,
I can take both branches. I have
been, as near as I can gness, about five-and-
twenty years at the business. My mother died
when I was thirteen years old, and in con-
sequence of a step-mother home became too
hot to hold me, and I turned into the streets
in consequence of the harsh treatment I met
with. My father had given me no education,
and all I know now I have picked up in the
streets. Well, at thirteen years, I turned into
the streets, houseless, friendless. My father
was a jMcturc-frame gilder. I was never taught
any business by him — neither his own nor any
other. I never received any benefit ftora him
that I know. Well then, sir, there was I, a
boy of thirteen, friendless, houseless, untaught,
and without any means of getting a living —
loose in the streets of London. At first I slept
anywhere : sometimes I passed the night m
the old Covent-gardeu-market ; at others, in
shutter-boxes; and at otliers, on door-steps
near my father's house. I lived at this time
upon the refuse that I picked up in the streets
— cabbage-stumps out of the maricet, orange-
peel, and the like. Well, sir, I was green
then, and one of the Stamp-ofBce spies got me
to sell some of the Poor MarCt Guardian^
(an unstamped paper of that time), so that his
fellow-spy might take m(j up. This he did,
and I had a month at Coldbath-fields for the
business. After I had been in prison, I got in
a measure hardened to the frowns of the world,
and didn't care what company I kept, or what
I did for a living. I wouldn't have you to
fancy, though, that I did anjrthmg dishonest.
I mean, I wasn't particular as to what I turned
my hand to for a living, or where I lodged. I
went to hve in Church-lane, St. Giles's, at a
threepenny house ; and having a tidy voice of
my own, I was there taught to go out ballad-
Hinging, and I have stuck to the business ever
since. I was going on for fifteen when I
first took to it. The fir>t thing I did was to
lead at glee-singing ; I took the air, and two
others, old hands, did tho second and the bass.
We used to sing tho * Red Cross Knight,'
*Hail, smiling Mom,' and harmonize *The
Wolf,' and other popular songs. Excepting
when we needed money, we rarely went out
till tlie evening. Then our pitches were in
qniet streets or squares, where we saw, by the
light at the windows, that some party was
going on. Wedding-parties was very good, in
general quite a harvest. Public-houses we did
little at, and then it was always with the par-
loiur company ; the tap-room people have no
taste for glee-singing. At times we took from
0«. to \Qn. of an evening, the three of us. I am
speaking of the business as it was about two
or three-and-twenty years ago. Now, glee-
singing is seldom practisctl in the streets of
Jjondon : it is chiefly confined to the provinces,
at present. In London, concerts are so cheap
now-A-days, that no one will stop to listen to
tlie street glee-singer* ; so most of the ' schools/
or sete, have gone to sing at the cheap concerts
held at the public-houses. Many of the glee-
-XVI.
108
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
pot one at Mr. C<iopor's, Surgeon, in Seven
Dials, when' I liOil -U. a week. I UKod to lie
then; fnmi bevoii o'clurk in the momin^ till
nine at ui^'hU but I went hunie to my meals.
After I'd hncn at ni}' \A\kcv lour inoutlis, I by
accident set lire t(i suine naphtho, which I was
stirring up in th<.> baek-yord, and it burnt ull
all luy eyulashi's, and t»u I * got the sock. '
AVhen he p^d nie my wages, — as I was al'raid
to tell my father what had happened, — I
started olf t4) niy old quarters in Whilechapel.
I stopped there lUl day on Sunday, and the
next three dnys I wander«id about seeking
work, but couldn't get none. I then give
it up as a had job, luid picked up with a man
named Jack Williams, who had no legs. He
was an old bailor, wlio had got frost-bitten in
the Arctic regions. I used to lead him about
with a big painted board afore him. It was
a picture of thi; plocu' where lie was froze in.
We used tu go oil about Jlatchtfo llighwoy,
and sometimes work up as for as Notting Hill.
On thi? averagj.', we got from 8». lo IO5. u-day.
My shore wui> about a tliird. J was with him
for lilteen months, till one ni^'ht I said S(ime-
thing to him when lie was a-btnl that didn't
please him, and ho got his knife out and
btabbed my leg in two places, — hen» arc the
marks. I bled a good deal. Tlii>- other h>dg-
ers didn't like to hit him fur it, un account of
his having no legs, but they kicked him out
of the house, and would not La him ba<'k nny
mon\ Thi.*y all wanted me to lock him up,
but I wouldn't, its he was an old pal. 1 wo or
three silk hamlkerchiefs was tied round my
log, and the next day 1 was took to St.
Thomas's Hospital, where I remained for o-
bout nine days. When I left the head-nurse
gave me ten shillings on account of being so
destitute — for I was without a ha'penny to
coll my own. As soon ns I got out of tlie lios-
pital I W4'nt down to UiUingsgate, and bought
some bri'iul au'l pickled whelks at a stall, but
when I pidled out my money to pay for 'em
some costennongrriug chaps knocked me down,
and rohlioil me ui Oj. I was completely stunned
by the blow. The police came up to see what
was the matter, and took mc to the station-
house, where I stopped till the next morning,
when the inspector made mo tell where my
father lived, and I was taken homo to him.
l-'or about a month my fattier kept nje under
lock and key, and after I had been with him
about three months more I ' st«.pt if again,
ftnd as I couM always whistle very well, 1
thought I'd tiy it for a living; so- 1 made a
•pitch' in New-strea, Covont Garden, and
began by whiaUing ' Will you love me then as
now T but there wasn't many in this worhl as
loved me. I did very well though that day,
for I got about 35. (td. or Xs., so I thought Td
practise it and stick to it. I worked (dl about
town till I got well known. I used, somctim.js,
to go into public-houses and whistle upon a
piece of 'hocco pipe, blowing into the bowl,
and moving my liugers as if I was plfl,)ing u
flute ,^ and nobody could tell tlie diSexeooe if
they had not seen me. SonM;times I used to
be asked to stand outside hotels, tavenu, and
even clnb-houses, and give 'om a tUDe: I
often had sixpences, shillings, and kalTorowng
thrown me. I only wish I had sicb lack now,
for tlie world's topsy-turvy, and I can't gat
liiu-dly anything. X used then to earn 8^
or 4f. a- day, and now it don't amount to vaam
than Ic. (Sd,
" Aller I'd worked London pretly well, I
sometimes would start off a few milea out ta
the towns and villages; but, genorally, it
wasn't much account. The country chaps lika
sich tunes as ^ The Jiorley Stack,' or * The Littk
House under the Hill.' I often used to whisib
to them while they danced. They liked jigi
mostly, and always paid me a penny a duioe
each.
'* I recollect once when I was whistling beforo
a gentleman's house down at Hoiualow, he sent
his servant and called me in. I was taken
into a fine largo room, full of looking-glasseiy
and time -pieces, and pictures. I was newr
in si<*h a room before, all my life. The goo-
tleman was there with his family, — about six
on 'em, — and he told me if I'd whistle, Ukd
learn his birds to sing, he'd give mo a sovereign.
1 Le had tliree tine brass-wu'e cages, with a bird
in each, slung all of a row from tliu ceiling. I
set to work * likit a brick,' and the birds bcgim to
sing directly, ami I amused 'em Tery much«
I K(.op]>e(l about an hoiu* and a half, and let 'eia
have all sorts of tunes, and then he gave lue
a sovereign, and told me to call again when I
come that way ; but before I left ho said tha
s(U'vants was to give mc something to eat and
drink, so 1 had dinner in the kiteiien with the
sei*vants, and a jolly good dinner it was.
"From H««unslow 1 wullied t«) Maidenhead,
and took a lodging for the night at the Turk'a
Head. In the evening some countrymen come
into the tap- room and kicked up a row nkith
the missus because she couldn't lodge 'em.
She run in to turn then away, when three of
'em ]»itehed into her right and left; and if
it hadn't been for me and another chop she'd
have gilt killed. When tliey got hor down I
Jumped upon the table and suatchod up the
only weapon I could lind, a brass condlestiok,
and knocked one of 'em down senseless, and
the other fellow got hold of a broomstick and
give it 'em as hard as he could, till we beat
*em right out of the place. There happened
to be some police outside, drilling, who came
over and took three of them to the stook^j
where tliey was locked in for twenty .four hoan«
The next day tho magistrato sentenced 'em
to three months' impnsonmont each, and I
started for Limdon and never whistled a tun*
till I reatrhed it, which was tliree days aflcr-
wards. I kept on at the old game, earning
about *i*. Gd, a.day, till the militia was being
QoWdd out, and then I joined them, fur I
thought it would be the host thing 1 coiuld do.
I was sworn in by Colonel Scrivana at J:iton
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
IW
W« vn taken into a stable, where
iras thfee hones. Four of us laid hold
9ok altogether ; and then, after asking
ire had any complaints, or were lame,
way unfit for service, or was married,
I any children ; and when we had said
e asked us if we was fiiee, able, and
I to serve in her Majesty's militia, in
Eiigland, Ireland, Scotland, or Wales,
m term of five years, if so long her
Ij required our services ; and when we
« was, we took the oath and kissed the
be same day, which was the 11th of
1851, we was packed oS firom the Water,
ition for Portsmouth. After being drilled
ree weeks I was returned for duty, and
cm guard. The first guard I motmted
I I>etachod Docic at Portsmouth — it's
the oonvicis are. I didn't do any
mg there, I can tell yer; I'd different
rf work, for part of our duty was to bury
»ar iieUowii that died after coming home
led from the Crimea. Tlie people
(h thai used to call us the ' garrison
ttdnQTs/ I was there thirteen months,
fifcr, the whole time, had more than two
i* bed a-week; and some port of the
he weather was very frosty, and we was
oivcr our ankles in snow. I belonged
\ 4Ch Middlesex, and no corjis ever did
ish duty, or went through so much hard-
as ours. From Portsmouth I was
ed, with my re^'iment, U50 Btroug, to
rvant, county Cork, Ireland. When wc
ed the Irish Channel a storm arose,
e was all fastened under hatches, and not
•d to come ux»on d^c^k for foiu- days, by
, time we reached the Cove of. Cork:
'■olonel's horse ha^l to be thrown over-
, and they, more than once, had serious
hta of throwing all the luggage into the
I weU. I was ten months in Ireland,
it do any whistling there ; and then the
ent was orrlered home again on account
3 peace. But before wo left we had a
gport, con*4isting of greasy-polo climbing,
ng in sacks, racing after a pig with a
r tail, and all tliem sort of things ; and
fht the officers had a grand ball. We
d at Portsmouth on a Monday momhig
ir o'clock, and marched through to tlie
n, and reached Hounslow about four
k the same afternoon. A month after
sre disembodied, and I came at once to
■m. I had about 1/. &«. in my pocket,
resolved in my own mind never to go
ling any more. I went to my father,
\e refused to help mo in any way. I
for work, but couldn't got any. for the
e said, they didn't hke a militia man ; so,
ha\-ing spent all my money, I found
L must either starve or whisUe, and so,
ee, I'm once more on the streets.
Hi lie I was in Ireland I absented my-
rom the bazraeks for twenty-ooa days,
but fearing that a picket would get hold of
me, I walked in one morning at six o'clock.
I was instantly placed under arrest in the
guard-room, where I remained four days,
when I was taken before the GoUmel, and to
my great surprise I saw, sitting aside of bim^
the very gentleman who had fiiven nia the
pound to whistle to his birds ; his name was
Colonel Bagot, as I found out afterwaida, and
he was deputy-magistrate for Middlesex. He
asked me if I was not Uie ohap &s had been
to his house ; I told him I was, so he got me
off witli a gorid reprimand, and saved me
being tried by a court-martial. When I first
took to sleeping at lodging-houses they was
very different to what they are now. I've
seen as many as eighteen people in one cellar
sleeping upon loose straw, covered with sheeta
or blankets, and as many as three in one bed (, <
but now they won't take in any little boys Uke^
as I was, unless they are with their parents ;
and there's very few beds in a room, and never
more than one in a bed. Married people have
a place always parted off for themselves. The
inspector comes in all times— often in the
middle of the night-^to see that the regula.
tious ain't brokefi.
" I used, one time, to meet another man
whistling, but like old IMck, who was tlie first
at the profession, he's gone dead, and so I'm
the only one at it now anywhere. It's very
tiring work, and makes yon precious hungry
when you keep at it for two or three houn ;
and I only wish I could get something else to
do, and you'd see how soon I'd drop it.
" The tunes that arc liked best in the
streets is sich as * Ben Bolt ' and ' Will you
love me then as now V but a year or two ago»
nothin' went down like the • Low-back Car.*
I was always being asked for it. I soon gets
hold of the new tunes that comes up. I dont
think whistling hurts me, because I dont
blow so hard as * old Dick ' used. A gentle>
man come up to me once in the street that
was a doctor, and asked me whether I drunk
much, and whether I drawed my breath in or
blowed it out. I told him I couldnt get much
to drink, and he said I ought at least to have
three half-pints of beer a-day, or else I should
go into a consumption; and when I said
I mostly blowed out when I whistled, he said
that was the best, because it didnt strain
the lungs so much."
WmsTLXKO Am) DmciNa Bot.
At the present time there is only one Eng-
lish boy going about the streets of London
dancing, and at the same time playing his
own musical accompaniment on a tin whistle.
There are two or three Italian boys who danoe
whilst they perform on either tbe flute or the
hurdy-gurdy, but the lad who gave me the
following statement assured me that be waa
the only Englishman who had made etreet
td danohig "^ profesBioii.'*
200
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOM.
He was a red-headed lad, of that peculiar
white complexion which acoompanies hair of
that colour. EQb forehead was covered with
freckles, so thiok, that they looked as if a
quantity of cayenne pepper had been ^rinkled
over it; and when he frowned, his hair moved
baokwBids and forwards like the twitching of
a horse shaking off flies.
** I've put some ile on my hair, to make me
look tidy," he said. The grease had tamed
his locks to a fiery crimson colour, and as he
passed his hands through it, and tossed it
backwards, it positively glittered with the fat
upon it.
The lad soon grew communicative enough,
and proceeded to show me a blue jacket which
he had bought that morning for a shilling,
and explain^ to me at the same time how
artfrd he had been over the bargain, for the
boy had asked eighteenpenoe.
I remarked that his shoes seemed in a bad
state, for they were really as white as a
baker's slippers from want of blacking, and the
toe of one gaped like the opening to a tortoise-
shell. He explained to me that he wore all
his boots out dancing, doing the double
shuffle.
** Now these *ero shoes," he said, " cost me
a shilling in Petticoat-lane not a week since,
and looked as good as new then, and even
now, with a little mending, they'll make a tidy
pair of crab-shells again."
To give force to tliis remark, he lifted his
leg up, but, despite his explanation, I could
not see how the leather could possibly be
repaired.
He went through his dances for me, at the
same time accompanying himself on his penny
whistle. He took his shoes off and did a
hornpipe, thumping his feet upon the floor
the while, like palms on a panel, so tlmt I
felt nervous lest there should be a pin in the
carpet and he be lamed by it
The boy seemed to have no notion of his
age, for although he accounted for twenty-two
years of existence, yet he insisted he was
only seventeen "come two months.'' I was
sorxy to find, moreover, that he was in the
habit of drinldng, seldom going home after his
night's work without being intoxicated ; and,
indeed, his thin body and pinched face bore
evidence of his excess in this respect, though,
but for his assertion that "he was never
hungry, and food was no good to him," I
should have imagined, at the first glance, that
he was pining with want.
He seems to be among the more fortunate
of those who earn their living in the streets,
for although I questioned and cross-questioned
him in eveiy possible way, he still clung to
his assertion that he made 2L per week. His
clothes, however, bore no evidence of his
prosperity, for his outer garment was a washed-
out linen blouse, such as glaziers wear, whUst
his trousers were of coarse canvas, and as
black on the thighs as the centre of a drum-head.
He brought with him a penny wh
show me his musical talents, anid, cc
his execution of the tin instrument wi
and certain.
The following is the statement 1
me : —
** Whistlino Billy.
That's my name, and I'm known all
about in the Borough as 'Whistlin§
though some, to be sure, calls me * 'W
Bill,' but in general I'm * Billy.' 1
looking very respectable now, but you
see me when I'm going to the play ; I ]
uncommon respectable, nobody kno
agoin. I shall go to the theatre nea
and I should just like you to see n
surprising.
" I ain't a vexy fat chap, am I ? but '.
meaty enough for my perfession, w
whistling and dancing in public-house
I gives 'em the hornpipe and the ba
that's dancing with my toes turned in.
" My father was a barber. He only
a penny for shaving, but he wouldn't (
hair under twopence, and he used to d(
very well sometimes ; I don't know ^
he's alive now, for I ain't seen him tl
years, nor asked him for a halfpenny,
was alive when I left, and so was :
brothers. I don't know whether they*:
now. No, I don't want to go and see 1
I can get my own living. He used tc
shop near Fitzroy square.
** I was always fond of dancing, and I
away from home for to follow it. I doi
my own age exactly : I was as tall tl
am now. I was twelve when I left hoi
it must be ten years ago, but I ain't
two : oh, dear no ! Why, I ain't got no v
nor things. I drink such a lot of h
stuff, that I cant grow no taller ; gei
at the public-houses gives it me. W
morning I was near tipsy, dancing t
coalheavers, who gave me drink.
" I used, when I was at father's, to
ball, and that's where I learned to dai
was a shilling ball in the New-road,
there was ladies, regular nice ones, bea
dressed. They used to see me danci
say, when I growed up I should :
beautif\il dancer ; and so I do, for I't
against anybody, and play the whistle
time. The ladies at these balls woi
me money then for dancing before
Ah! I'd get my entrance shilling ba
four or five into the bargain. I'd gi
take it home to mother, after buying
sweet-stuff, or such-like, and I thin
why mother would let me go, 'cos I pi>
a good bit of money.
•* It was another boy that put me
running away fr^m home. He axed n
along with him, and I went. I dare
troubled father a bit when he found I
I ain't troubled him for ten years no'^
LONDOK LABOUR AND THE LONDON FOOB.
201
» go back to fiim; he'd only send me to
and I make a better living bjr myself.
t Uke work, and, to tell yon the tmth, I
did work, for it's like amosement to me
ce ; and it must be an amusement, 'cos
ises the people, and that's why I gets on
1.
hen I hooked it with that chap, we went
ydoa, in Surrey. We went to a lodging-
where there was men and women, and
nd chaps, and all like that ; we all slept
I room. I had no money with me, only
)the8 ; there was a very nice velvet cap ;
looked very different then to what I do
This young chap had some tin, and he
ne. I don't know how he earned his
ir he'd only go out at night time, and
he'd come home and bring in money,
leat and bread, and such-like. He said
, before I went pals with him, that he'd
ne, and that he'd make plenty of money.
Id me he wanted a chum to mate with,
ent with him right off. I can't say what
B. He was about thirteen or fourteen,
never seed him do no work. He might
>een a prig for all I knows,
[ter rd been in the lodging-house, this
K)ught a stock of combs and cheap jewels,
ten we went out together, and he'd knock
houses and offer the things for sale, and
and by. There's a lot of gentlemen's
«, if you recollect, sir, roimd Croydon,
e London road. Sometimes the servants
I give us grub instead of money. We
)l^ty to eat. Now you comes to speak
I do remember he used to bring back
old silver with him, such as old table-
s or ladles, broke up into bits, and he'd
a deal selling them. I think he must
seen a prig. At night we used to go to
iblic-houses and dance. He never danced,
t down and looked on. Ho said he was
elation, and I always shared my drink
dm, and the people would say, * Feed me,
cay dog,' seeing me going halves with
kept along with him for three years, he
Dg in the day, and I at night, dancing,
arted at Plymoutli, and I took up wiUi
er mate, and worked on to Exeter. I
my new mate was a regular prig, for it
hrough his putting me up to prigging
got into trouble there. This chap put
L to taking a brass cock from a fotmdry.
\ in a big wooden butt, with 150 gallons
;er in it X got over a gate and pulled it
md sot all the foundry afloat We cut
but two hours afterwards the pohceman
to the lodging-house, and though there
lot of boys and girls, he picked me out,
had two months for it, and all my hair
it off, and I only had dry bread and gruel
day, and soup twice a- week. I was jolly
for that cock business when I was
It, and I made up my mind never to
nothing more. It's going to the lodging.
honaes puts feQows up to priggiog. The
chi^s brings in legs of beef, and pvddens,
and dothes, and then they sells 'em cheap.
You can sometimes buy a pair of breeches,
worth ten shillings, for two bob, for the chaps
dont like to take 'em to sell at the shops,
and would sooner sell 'em for almost nothing
rather than be found out
** When I came out of quod I had a shilling
give me, and I went and bought a penny
whistle. I was always fond of music and
dancing, and I know'd a little of playing the-
whistle. Mother and fiEither was both uncom-
mon fond of dancing and music, and used to-
go out dancing and to concerts, near evexy night
pretty weU, after they'd locked the shop up. I
made about eleven bob the first week I was
out, for I was doing very well of a night,,
though I had no hair on my head. I didn't
do no dancing, but I knew about six tunes,,
such as * Kory O'More,' and < The Girl X left
behind me,' two hornpipes, (the Fishers' and
theSailors') 'St Patrick's Day,' and* The SheUs-
of the Ocean,' anew song as had just come up.
I can play fifty tunes now. Whistles weren't so
common tlien, they weren't out a quarter so
much as now. S winden had the making of them
then, but he weren't the first maker of them.
Clarke is the largest manufactory of them now,
and he followed Swinden. People was asto-
nished at seeing a tune played on a tin whistle,
and gave pretty liberal. I believe I was the
first as ever got a living on a tin whistle.
Now there's more. It was at that time as I
took to selling whistles. I carried 'em on a
tin tray before me, and a lid used to shut on
it, fixed. I'd pitch before a hotel amongst the
gentlemen, and I'd get 'id, a-pieco for the
whistles, and some would give me sixpence or a
shilling, just according. The young gents was
them as bought most, and then they'd begin
playing on tliem, and afterwards give them to
the young ladies passing. They was veiy
pleased with mc, for I was so little, and I done
well. The first two months I made about 17t.
or 18*. a-week, but after Uiat they got rather
dull, so 1 gived up selling of them and took to
dancing. It didn't pay me so well as the
whistles, for it was pretty near all profit on
them — tliey only cost me 34<. a-dozen. I tra-
velled all round Devonshire, and down to
Land's End, in Cornwall— 1^20 miles fh)m
London, and kept on playing the whistle on
the road. I knew all about them parts. I
generally pitched before the hotels and the
spirit-shops, and began whistling and dancing;
but sometimes I'd give the cottagers a turn,
and they'd generally hand over a ha'penny a-
piece and some bread.
^I stopped travelling about the south of
England, and playing and dancing, for a little
better than four years and a half. I didn't do so
well in winter as in summer. Harvest time was
my best time. I'd go to the fields where thej
was working, and play and dance. Sometimes
the master would hollar out, * Here, you get
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOB.
cut of this ! ' but tho men would speak up for
me and say, ' Lot him stop, master.' Muny a
chap's pot Uie sack through me. by leaving off
hia work and beginning to dance. Sometimes,
▼hen the last lond of hay was going liome
(you see, that's always considered the joUiest
part of tho worit), they'd make mo get up to
the top of the load, and then whistle to them.
They was all merry — as merry as could be, and
would follow after dancing about, men, women,
and boys. I generally played at the han-est
suppers, and the farmer himself would give
me 4«. id. or 5s. tho night, besides my quart of
ale. Then I'd pick up my 6*. or 7». in
ha'pence among the men. I've hod as many
as two harvest suppers a week for three weeks
or a month folloyring, for I used to ax the
people round what time they was going to
hare a supper, and where, and set off, walk-
ing nine or ten mUes to roach tho farm, and
after that we find another spot
•* It's very jolly among farm people. They
give you plenty of cider and ale. Tvo drunk
the cider hot, whilst they wos brewing it —
new cider, you know. You never want food
neither, for there's more than you can eat,
generally bread and cheese, or maybe a little
cold bilcd pork. At night, the men and
women used to sleep in a land of bam, among
the clean straw ; and after tho beer-shops had
closed — they are all little beer-shops, 3</. a
quart in your own jugs, and like that — they'd
say to me, ' Gome up to the doss and give us a
tune,' and they'd come outside and dance in
the open air, for they wouldn't let them have
no candles nor matches. Then they'd make
thcirselves hapj>y, and Pd play to 'em, and
they'd club up and give me money, sometimes
as much as 7«., but I've never hod no higher
than that, but never no less than 3s. One
man used to take all the money for me, and
Pd give him a pot o' ale in the morning. It
was a penny a dance for each of 'cm as danced,
and each stand-up touk a quarter of a hour,
and there was generally two hours of it ; that
makes about seven dances, allowing for
resting. I*ve had as many as forty dancing
at a time, and sometimes there was only nine
of 'em. I've seen all the men get up together
and dance a hornpipe, and tho women look
on. They always did a hornpipe or a country
dance. You see, some of 'em would sit down
and drink during the dance, but it mnountotl
to almost three dances each perscm, and
generally there was about fifty present.
Usually tho men would pay for the women,
but if they was hani up and been free with
their money, the girls would pay for them.
They was mostly Irish, and I had to do jigs
for them, instead of a hornpipe. My country
dance was to the tune ' Oh don't you tease me,
pretty little dear.' Any fiddler knows that
air. If s always played in tho country for
country dances. First they dances to each
other, and then it's hands across, and then
down the middle, and then it's back again and
turn. That's the countiy dance, sir. I used
to be regular tired after two hours. They'd
stick me up on a box, or a tub, or else they'd
make a pile of straw, and stick me a-top of it;
or if there was any carts standing by loaded
with hay, and the horses out, I was told to
mount that There was very little drinking
all this time, because tho beer-shops was shot
up. Perhaps there might be such a thing at
a pint of beer between a man and his partner,
which he'd brought in a can along with him.
They only dimccd when it was moonlight It
never cost me nothing for lodgings all the
lian-est times, for they would xnake me stqp
in the bam along with them ; and they was
veiy good company, and took especial care of
me. You mustn't think this dancing took
place evcxy night, but only three or four m^joSoL
a-woek. I find 'em out travelling along the
road. Sometimes they've sent a man fhm
one farm-house to bespeak me whilst I waa
playing at another. Thero was a man aa
played on tlie clarionet as used to bo a
favourite among haymakers, but they preftr
the penny tin whistle, because it makes mon
noise, and is shriller, and is easier heazd;
besides, I'm very rapid with my fingers, and
makes 'em keep on dancing till they are tired
out Please God, 111 be down among them
again this summer. I goes down regular-
Last year and tho year before, and ever since
I can recollect
'^When I'm in London I make a good
living at dancing and plaving, for I'm the ontr
one that plays the whistle and dances at titf
same time. I'm reckoned the best hand at ft
of any man in town or countiy. Pve often
been backed by the company to dance ud
?lay against another man, and I generally win.
've been in hotels, and danced to gentlemen*
and made plenty of money at it I do all
manner of tricks, just to make 'em lau^—
capering, or * hanky-panky,' as I term it I
once had half-a-sovereign given to me, bat I
think it was a mistake, for he says, * Take that,
and go on.' I went home to clean myself, and
had luy trousers washed, and my shoes blacked,
and went half-price to the theatre^the *"Wic,'
I think it was — and paid my shilling, and
went in as tidy as a gentleman.
" When I first go into a public-house I go
into the tap-room, and say, * Would you l»e
to hear a tune, gentlemen, or see a dance, or a
little bit of amusement?' If they say *No,'
I stand still, and begin a talking, to make 'em
laugh. I'm not to be choked off easy. 1 8ay»
*■ Come, gentlemen, can't you help a poor fellov
as is the best dancer in England 7 I must hafe
some pudden for breakfast, because I aint had
nothing for three weeks.' Then some atft
* Well, I will see the best dancer in England;
I've got a mag.' Then after dancing I go to
Uie gentleman who has given me most, and
ask him six or seven times <to give men
copper,' declaring he's the only one as ban
given me nothing, and that muces the otharf
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
803
also ask the landkud to give a half-
sr to grease my feet, and that makes
'. I generally gets good nobbings
ooUection, you know). They likes
ig better than music ; but it's doing
Uia' that takes. I ax them if they 11
tompipe or the Irish jig, and if they
g I do it with my toes turned in, like
\ bandy ; and that's very popular. I
to as many as forty pubhc-housos
ing, and dance inside; or if they
ne come in. they'll say, * Dance out-
ich as you like,' and that's very near
r me. If I gets inside, I'll mop up
;ood c<xnpany, or perhaps M. or 4d.^
s plenty to dinnk — more than I can
*m generally drunk before I can get
hey never gives ma nothing to eat,
t matter, for Fm seldom hungry ; but
rop of good beer,' as the song says,
leen engaged at concert-rooms to
have pumps put on, and light
ind a Guernsey, dressed up as a
hat was in the country, at Oanter-
I had 7t. and plenty to eat and drink,
if^eared at a London concert-room,
'6 been axed to come in and amuse
oy ; but I wasn't tidy enough, and
I dance in a public-house I take
off and say, * Now, gentlemen, watch
.' For the hornpipe I begin with
oond, or * twisting' as the term is ;
nds up, and does a donble-shuiiie —
tndght fives' as we calls it; then I
nd again before doing the back-
mother kind of double-shuffle. Then
c rocks of Scilly, that's when you
ir feet and bends sideways; next
I double steps and rattles, that is,
heels makes a rattle coming down ;
(hes with the s(mare step. My next
walk round ana collect the money,
like to see me do the jig better than
ipe. Them two ore the only dances
ce regulftr 2». ft-week. Yesterday I
*]<f., and it was rainy, so I couldn't
U late. At Brighton Reqatta I and
made 5/. lOs. between us, and at
gatta we made ft/, between us. We
d 2/. 10s. at the lodging-house in
betting and tosBing, and playing at
e always follows up the regatta.
only il, lOf. at Hastings Regatta.
re pick up on a Saturday night our
o, and on other days perhaps 5s. or
ling to the day.
I to go about with a mate who had a
g. He was a beautiful dancer, for
'em all laugh. He's a little chap,
does the hornpipe, and he's un-
tctive, and knocks his leg against the
ad makes the people grin. He was
issfbl at Brighton, because he was
''I've also been about with a school of
tumblers. I used to do the danoing between
the posturing and likes of that. Tve learnt
tumbling, and I wan cricked for the purpose,
to teach me. I couldn't walk for three days.
They put my legs round my neck, and then
couldn't get 'em back again. I was in that
state, regular doubled up, for two hours, and
thought I was done for. Some of my mates
said, *Tliere, you've been and spoiled that
chap.' It's dreadful painful learning tumbling.
When I was out with the posturers I used to
play the drum and mouth-pipes ; I had a old
hat and coat on. Then when my torn come,
I'd appear in my professional costume, and a
young chap who was a fluter — not a whistler,
like me, — would give a tune, and I'd go on the
carpet and give Uie Irish jig or the hornpipe,
** There was four of us in the school, and
we'd share a xx)nnd a-week each^ We were
down at Do^'er there, and put up at the Jolly
Sailors. I left them there, and went alone on
to the camp where the German Legion was —
at ShomcUife, that's the place. I stopped
there for three weeks, and did veiy wbll,
taking my 7s. or 8s. a-day.
"After that I got tured of dancing, and
thought I'd like a change, so I went out on a
fishing-boat They didn't give me nothing »•
week, only 4s. when we come home after two
months, and your clothes, and victpala %•
board. We first went fishing for plaice, and
soles, and turbots, and we'd land them at
Yarmouth, and they'd send them on to Low-
estoft, and fh>m there on to London. Then
we went codding off the coast of Holland, for
cod and haddock. It was just drawing on
winter, and very cold. They set me with a
line and I had to keep sawing it backwards
and forwards till I felt a fish bite, then to
hawl it up. One night I was a near firoce,
and suddenly I had two cods bite at onee, and
they nearly pulled me over, for they dart
about like mad, and tug awfol ; so I said to
the master, * I don't like this work.' But he
answers, * You must like it the time you
stops here.* So I made up my mind to bolt
the first time I got to shore. I only did it as
a change, to see if I liked it You're right
there, there ain't no drinking on board.
"When you hawl up a cod tiwy bound
about the deck, and they're as strong as a
Scotch terrier dog. When we hold 'em down^
we prick them under the fin, to let the wind
out of them. It would choke them if we
didn't let it out, for it hisses as it comes off.
It's firom dragging them up so quick out of
fifteen-fathom water that gives 'em the wind.
When they were pricked, we chucked them
into the well in the hold, and let Uiem swim
about We killed them when we got to
Gravesend by hitting them on the head with
tom-boys — the sticks we hauls the line
through. After three or four blows they'ro
stunned, and the blood comes, and th^^
kiUcd.
MM
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
** When I goes into the pablic-houses, part
of my perfonnance is to play the whistle up
my nose. I don*t do it in the streets, because
if I did there'd be thousands looking at me,
and then the polioe would make a row. Last
night I did it. I only pitched at one place, and
did my night's woik nght ofL I took 4«. d|<i.
and lots of beer in an hour, from the cabbies
and the people and alL At last the police told
me to move on. When I plays the whistle up
my nose, I puts the end of it in my nostril, and
blows down it I can do that just as easy as
with my mouth, only not as loud. I do it as a
variety, first in m^ mouth, then in my nose, and
then back again m my mouth. It makes the
people laugh. I've got a cold now, so I can't do
It so well as at times, but I'll let you see what
it is like."
He then inserted the wooden tongue of the
whistle into his nostril, and blowing down it,
began a hornpipe, which, although not so shrill
as when he played it with the mouth, was still
load enough to be heard all over the house.
IV.— STREET ARTISTS.
I xow oome to the Street Artists. These in-
clude the artists in coloured chalks on the
pavements, the black profile - cutters, and
others.
Stbbxt Photoobafht.
WiTHiH the last few years photographic
portraits have gradually been diminishing in
price, until at the present time they have
become a regular article of street commerce.
Those living at the west-end of London have
but little idea of the number of persons who
gain a livelihood by street photography.
There may be one or two ** galleries " in
the New-road, or in Tottenham-oourt-road,
but these supply mostly shilling portraits.
In the eastern and southern districts of
London, however, such as in Bermondsey,
the New-cut, and the Whitechapel-road, one
cannot walk fifty yards without passing some
photographic establishment, where for six-
pence persons can have their portrait token,
and framed and glazed as well.
It was in Bermondsey that I met with the
first instance of what may be called pure
street photography. Here a Mr. F 1 was
taking sixpenny portraits in a booth built up
out of old canvas, and erected on a piece of
spare ground in a furniture-broker's yard.
Mr. F ^1 had been a travelling showman,
but finding that photography was attracting
more attention than giants and dwarfs, he
relinquished the wonders of Nature for those
of Science.
Into this yard he had driven his yellow
caravan, where it stood like an enormous
Noah's ark, and in front of the caravan
(by means of clothes-horses and posts, over
which were spread out the largi
paintings (show-cloths), which we
fairs to decorate the fh>nts of bootl)
erected his operating-room, which :
long and as broad as a knife-hous<
just tall enough to allow a not j
tall customer to stand up with lu
whilst by means of two window
glazed roof had been arranged for 1<
into this little tent
On the day of my visit Mr. F
despite the doudy state of the al
doing a large business. A crowd i
his tent was admiring the photogi
cimens, which, of all sizes and in i
frames, were stuck up against the ci
as irregulariy as if a bill-sticker 1
them there. Others were gazing
chalky.looking paintings over the
and on which a lady was represen
graphing an officer, in the full cost
11th Hussars.
Inside the operating-room we
crowd of women and children was
all of them waiting Uieir turn to
Mr. F ^1 remariced, as I enterei
was wonderful the sight of childre
been took ; ' and he added, * whe
comes for her portrait, there's a di
along with her to see it took.'
The portraits I discovered wen
Mrs. F ^1, who, with the slee^
dress tucked up to the elbows, was
the moment of my visit in poi
camera at a lady and her little boy,
his wild nervous expression, seemc
an idea that the operatress was takii
previous to shooting him. Mr. I
plained to me the reason why his
ated. **You see," said he, "peo]
more to be took by a woman than
Many's a time a lady tells us to sent
away, and let the missis come,
natural," he continued ; *' for a lady
taking her bonnet off and tucking u
or sticking a pin in here and there
of her own sect, which before a n
objectionable."
After the portrait had been take
that the little square piece of glas;
it was impressed was scarcely lar|
visiting card, and this being ha
to a youth, was carried into th
at the back, where the process was
I was in\ited to follow the lad to th
on wheels.
The outside of the caravan we
markable, and of that peculiar das
tecture which is a mixture of coac
building. In the centre of the f
show were little folding-doors with
brass knockers, and glass let into
panels. On each side of the door
windows, almost big enough for a \
whilst the white curtains, festoonc
sides, gave them a pleasant appears
STREET ACROBATS PERFOKMma
]LaKi>ON LABOUR AND THE LONDON FQOB.
•05
entire ereotion wis ooloimd yeDow, aad the
DmDeroos little wooden joists and tie-beams,
which frBmed end stzengthened the Tehicle,
coniJerred upon ii a singnler f kid-like ap-
peftmiice.
I mounted tlie hroed step-ladder aad en-
tered. The room remiaded me of a ship's
cabin, for it was panelled and had orose-
beuDS to the arched roof, whilst the bolts and
fasteningtk were of bright brass. If the win-
dowB had not been so large, or the roof so
high, it would have reBemhled the fore-cabin
of a GraTesend steamer. There were tables
iod chairs, as in an ordinary cottage room.
At one end was the family bed, concealed
during th^ day by chintz curtains, which hong
iown like a drop-scene before a miniature
theatre; and between the openings of these
curtains I eoold catch sight of some gaudily
attired wax figures stowed away there for
want of room, but standing there like a group
of actors behind the soeoes.
Along one of the beams ^ blunderbuss and
a pistcd rtsted on hooks, and the showman's
ifialiiHC; trumpet (as laige as the fimnel to a
groeer^a ooffee-mili) hung against the wall,
whilst in one oomer was a kind of cabin stove
of polished brass, before which a boy was
dkymg some of the portraits that had been
recently taken.
** So you've took him at last," said the pro-
prietor, who aceompanied us as he snatched
the poflndt from the boy's hand. ** Well,
the ^yes ain't no great things, but as it's the
third attempt it must do."
On inspecting the portrait I found it to be
one of those drab-looking portraits with a
light back-ground, where the ilgiffe rises
from the bottom of the plate as straif^t as a
post, and is in the cmnped, nervoos attitude
of a patient in a dentist's chair.
After a time I left Mr. F ^I's, and went
to another establishment close by, which had
originally formed part of a shop in the penny-
iee-and- bull's-eye line — for the name-board
0T» ** Photographio Depdt" was Rtill the pro-
perty of the confectioner— so that the portraits
displayed in the window were surmounted by
an announcement of ** Ginger beer Id, and2<i."
A touter at the door was crying out ^ Hi !
hi i— walk inside! walk inside! and have your
c'rect likeness took, frame and glass complete,
and only 6i2.!— time of sitting only four
seconds !"
A rough-looking, red-faced tanner, who had
been staring at some coloured French litho-
graphs which decorated the upper panes, and
who, no doubt, imagined that they had been
taken by the photognqphio process, entered,
^ying, *' Let me have my likeness took."
The tnuter instantly called out, '* Here, a
shilling likeness for this here gent."
The tanner observed that he wanted only a
Bixpenny.
** Ah, very good, sir ! " and raising his voioe,
tha tooter shootad louder than beion— ««▲
sixpenny one first, and a shilling one after-
wards."
*' I teU yer I don't want only sizpennorth,"
angrily returned the customer, as he entered.
At this estaUishmeni the portraits were
taken in a little alley adjoining the premises,
where the light was so insuffident, that even
the blanket hung up at the end of it looked
black from the deep ahadows oast by the walls.
When the tanner's portrait was completed
it was nearly black; and, indeed, the only
thing visible was a dight light on one side of
the face, and which, doubtlessly, accounted
for the short speech which the operator
thought fit to make as he presented the lOce-
neas to his customer,
'* There," he said, "thera is your likeness,
if you lilDB ! look at it yosnaif ; and only
ei^^^tenee"— ** Only sizpenoa," observed the
man/— "Ah! oontinned Uie pW)prieU3r, ^but
youSre got a patent Amoriean preserver, and
that's twopenoe more*"
Then fbUowed a diaensaoii, in which the
artist insisted that he lost by eveiy sixpenny
portrait he took, and tiM. tanner as stxengly
protesting that he oouldn% beKeve thai, for
they must get foiac profit any how. ** You
don't tumble to the rig," said the artist ; "if s
the half-guinea ones, you see, that pi^ us."
The touter, fiediiig that this disenssion was
libdy to eontimie, entered aad Joined the
argiunent. " Why, if a ohei^ m dirt," he ex-
claimed incUgnantly; '*the fhet k, our go-
vemoi^s a friend of die people, aad dont mfaid
losing a little money. He's determined that
aver^mdy shall have a portrait, from the
highest to the lowest. Ihcbed, next Sunday,
he do talk of taking them ftr threepeooe-
ha'peaay, and if that aint philsndery, what
isf-
After the touter's oration the taaner seemed
somewhat contented, and payiB{^ his eight-
pence left the shop, looking at his pwtura in
all lights, and repeatedly polishing it up with
the cuff of his coat-sleeve, as if he were tiying
to brighten it into something Uke distinetness.
Whilst I was in this establishment a cus-
tomer was induced to pay twopence for having
the theory of photography eiqplained to him.
The lecture was to the efiEiset, that the brass
tohe of the ** camerer" was filled with clock-
work, which carried the image from the lens
to the ground glass at the back. To give
what the lecturer called ** hockeylar proof"
of this, the camera was carried to the shop-
door, and a boy who was passing by ordered
to stand still for a minute.
** Now, then," continued the lecturer to the
knowledge-aeeker, ** look behind here ; there's
the himage, you see ; " and then addressing
the boy, he added, «Just c^en your mouth,
youngster;" and when the lad did so, the
student was asked, «« Are you looking down
the young un's throat?" and on his nodding
aaaeot, he was informed, ** Wall, thaffe the
way portraits ii took.*
200
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
Statement of ▲ Photoobaphzo Max.
ui»YE been on and off at photographic-
portrait taking since its commencement —
that is to saj, since they were taken cheap -»
two years this summer. I lodged in a room in
Lambeth, and I used to take them in the
back-yard — a kind of garden; I used to take
a blanket off the bed, and used to tack it on a
clothes-horse, and my mate used to hold it, if
the wind was high, whilst I took the por.
trait
** The reason why I took to photographing
was, that I thought I should like it better
than what I was at I was out busking and
drag-pitching with a banjo then. Buskmg is
going into public-houses and playing, and
singing, and dancing; and drag-pitcMng is
going out in the day down the little courts —
tidy places, little teiraces, no thoroughfistres,
we cfdl drags. I'm a very determined chap,
and when I take a hideainto my head I always
do it somehow or other. I didn't know any-
thing about photographs then, not a mite, but
I saTed up my money; sometimes a !«.; if I
had a good day, 1j. 6if. ; and my wife she
went to work at day boot-binding, and at
night dandng at a exhibition, or such -like
(she's a tolerable good dancer — a penny ex-
hibition or a parade dancer at fairs ; that is,
outside a show) ; sometimes she is Mademoi-
selle, or Madame, or what it may be. I got a
loan of d/. (and had to pay 4/. U«. for it), and
with what I'd saved, I managed to get together
5/. Of., and I went to OilberC Flemming's, in
Oxford-street, and bought a complete appa-
ratus for taking pictures ; 6| by 4f , for Oi. 6«.
Then I took it home, and opened the next
day to take portraits for what we could get —
If. and over. I never knew anything about
taking portraits then, though they showed me
when I bought the apparatus (but that was
as good as nothing, for it takes months to
learn). But I hod cards ready printed to put
in the window before I bought the apparatus.
The very next day I had the camera, I had
a customer before I had even tried it, so I
tried it on him, and I gave him a black
picture (fori didn't know how to make the
portrait, and it was all black when I took the
glass out), and told him that it would come
out bright as it dried, and he went away quite
delighted. I took the first Sunday after we
had opened 1/. 0*. Ocf., and evGiybody was
quite pleased with their spotted and blisick
pictures, for we still told 6iem they would
come out as they dried. But the next week
they brought them back to be changed, and
I could do them better, and they had middling
pictures — for I picked it up very quick.
" I had one fellow for a half-guinea portrait,
and he was from. Woolwich, and I made him
come three times, like a lamb, and he stood
pipes and 'bacca, and it was a thundering bad
one after alL He was delighted, and he
swears now it's the best he ever had took, for
it don't fade, but will stop black to the end of
the world; though he remarks that I deceived
him in one thing, for it dont come out bright
*' You see, when first photography come up
I had my eye on it, for I could see it would
turn me in something some time. I went and
worked as a regular labourer, canying paib
and so on, so as to try and learn something
about chemistry ; for I always had a hankling
after science. Me and Jim was out at Strat-
ford, pitching with the bai^o, and I saw some
men coming out of a chemical works, and wb
went to * nob ' them (that's get some half^noe
out of them). Jim was tambo beating, and
we was both black, and they calbd us lasgr
beffgars, and said we ought to work as they
diX So we told them we couldn't get work,
we had no characters. As we went home I
and Jim got talking, and he says, * What a
fine thing if we could get into the berth, for
you'd soon learn about them portraits if you
get among the chemicals ; ' so I agreed to go
and try for the situation, and told him that if
I got the berth Pd *nanti panka his nabs
snide ;' that means, I wouldn't turn him up, or
act nasty to him, but would share money the
same as if we were pitching again. Thai
slang is mummers' slang, used by strolling
professionals.
" I stopped there for near twelve months, on
and off. I had lOt . at first, but I got up to l(tt.;
and if I'd stopped I've no doubt I should have
been foreman of one of the departments, for
I got at last to almost the management of
the oxalic acid. They used to make sulphate
of iron — ^ferri snip is the word for it — and car-
bonate of iron, too, and I used to be like the
red man of Agar then, all over red, and
a'most thought of cutting that to go for a
soldier, for I shouldn't have wanted a uniform.
Then I got to charging tlie retorts to make
carbonate of ammonia, and from that I went to
oxalic acid.
** At night mo and Jim used to go out with
the bai\jo and tamborinc, and we could
manage to make up our shares to fV'om ISt. to
a guinea a- week each ; that is, sharing my
wages and all; for when we chum together
we always panka each other bona (that is,
share). We always made our ponta (that is,
a pound) a- week, for we could average our
duey bionk pcroon a darkey,' or two shillings
each, iu the niglit.
*' That's how I got an idea of chemicals,
and when I wont to photography many of the
very things I used to manufacture ^-as the *
very same as we used to take i>ortraits, such
as the hyposulphate of soda, and the nitrate
of silver, and the sulphate of iron.
"One of the reasons why I couldnt take
portraits was, that when I bought my camera
at Flemming's he took a portrait of me with
it to show me how to use it, and as it was a
dull afternoon he took 90 seconds to produce
the picture. So, you see, when I went to work
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOB.
207
I thonght I ought to let my pictures go the
agme time; and hang me if I didn't, whether
the sun was shining or not I let my plate
stop 90 seconds, and of course they i^eid to
come out overdone and quite white, and as the
erening grew darker they came better. IVhen
1 got a good one I was surprised, and that
picture went miles to be shown about. Then
I formed an idea that I had made a miscal-
caktion as to my time, and by referring to the
sixpenny book of instructions I saw my mis-
take, and by the Sunday — that was five days
after — I was very much improved, and by a
month I could take a very tidy picture.
''I was getting on so well I got some of my
portraits, when they was good ones, put in a
dumdler^s shop ; and to be sure I got first-
nte specimens. I used to go to the different
shining portrait galleries and have a likeness
of mysefr or friends done, to exhibit in my
own window. That's the way I got my
samples to begin with, and I believe it's done
ill over London.
**I kept at this all the winter, and all the
time I suppose I earned 30«. a-week. When
sommer come again I took a place with a
garden in the Old Kent-road, and there I
done middling, but I lost the majority of my
business by not opening on a Sunday, for it
wa9 a religious neighbourhood, and I could
have earned my bl. a-week comfortable, for as
it was I cleared my 2/. regular. Then I had
a regular tent built up out of clothes-horses.
I stopped there till I had an offer of a good
situatioo, and I accepted of it, at 2/. a-week.
•' My new place was in Whitechapel, and we
lowered the price from a shilling to sixpence.
We did well there, that is the governor did, you
know, for I've taken on the average from 60 to
100 a-day, varying in price frxDm sixpence to half-
a-guinea, and the megority was shilling ones.
The greatest quantity I over took was 140 in
one day, and 124 was taken away as they was
done. The governor used to take 20/. a-week,
and of that 8/. clear profit, after paying me 2/.
the men at the door 24«., a man and woman
29«., and rent 21. My governor had, to my
knowledge, 11 other shops, and I don't know
an of his establishments ; I managed my con-
cern for him, and he never come near us some-
times for a month.
** I left on my own accord after four months,
and I joined two others on equal shares, and
opened a place of my own in South wark.
Unfortunately, I begun too late in the season,
or I should have done well there ; but at first
we realised about 2/. a-week each, and up to
last week we have shared our 2f^, a-head.
* Sunday is the best day for shilling portraits ;
in fact, the majority is shilling ones, because
then, you see, people have got their wages, and
don't mind spending. Nobody knows about
men's ways better Uian we do. Sunday and
Monday is the Derby-day like, and then after
that they are about cracked up and done.
The lirgest amoant I've taken at Southwark
on a Sunday is 80 — over 4/. worth, but then
in the week-days it's different ; Sunday's 15«.
we think that very tidy, some days only 3*. or 4*.
" You see we are obliged to resort to aU sort
of dodges to make sixpenny portraits pay. It's a
very neat little picture our sixpenny ones is ;
with a little brass rim round them, and a neat
metal inside, and a front glass ; so how can that
pay if you do the legitimate business ? The glass
will cost you 2^. a-dozen — this smaU size —
and you give two with every picture ; then the
chemicals will cost quite a halfpenny, and
varnish, and frame, and fittings, about 2d,
We reckon ^d, out of each portrait And then
you see there's house-rent and a man at the
door, and boy at the table, and the operator,
all to pay their wages out of this ^d. ; so you
may p^uess where the profit is.
*• One of our dodges is what we term * An
American Air-Preserver;' which is nothing
more than a card, — old benefit tickets, or, if
we are hard up, even brown paper, or any-
think, — soap wrappings, just varnished on
one side. Between our private residence and
our shop, no piece of card or old paper es-
capes us. Supposing a party come in, and says
* I should like a portrait ;' then I inquire which
they'll have, a shilling or a sixpenny one. If
they prefer a sixpenny one, I then make them
one up, and I show them one of the air-preser-
vers,— which we keep ready made up, — and I teU
them that they are all chemicalized, and come
from America, and that without them their
picture will fade. I also tell them that I make
nothing out of them, for that they are only
2^. and cost all the money ; and dlat makes
'em buy one directly. They always bite at
them ; and we've actuaUy had people come to
us to have our preservers put upon other per-
sons' portraits, saying they've been everywhere
for them and can't get them. I charge 3rf. if
it's not one of our pictures. I'm the original in-
ventor of the * Patent American Air-Preserver.'
We first ctdled them the 'London Air-Pre-
servers;' but they didn't go so well as since
they've been the Americans.
** Another dodge is, I always take the portrait
on a shilling size ; and after they are done, I
show them what they can have for a shilling, —
the fUU size, with the knees ; and table and
a vase on it, — and let them understand that
for sixpence they have aU the back-ground and
legs cut off; so as many take the shilling
portraits as sixpenny ones.
** Talking of them preservers, it is aston-
ishing how they go. We've actuaUy had pho-
tographers themselves come to us to buy our
* American Air- Preservers.' We tells them
it's a secret, and we manufacture them our-
selves. People won't use their eyes. Why,
I've actuaUy cut up an old band-box afore
the people's eyes, and varnished it and dried
it on the hob before their eyes, and yet they
still fancy they come from America ! Why, we
picks up the old paper firom the shop-sweep-
mg, and they make flFst-rate ' Patent American
808
LONDON LABOUR JNJD TBS LONDON POOR.
Air-Preserran.' AetmUj, when ve'va been
short, I'Te torn off a bit of old logar-paper,
aud sUiok it on without any Ysnuih at tU, and
the party haa gone awaj quite hapfiy and oon-
tented. But yon mmt remember it ia really
a Qseftil thmg, for it doea do good and do
preaerve the pietnre.
" Another of our dodgea,— anditiaaiplen.
did dodge, though it wanta a nerve to do it,—
is the brightening aolntian, whieh ia nothing
more than aqna diatUled, or pore water.
"When we take a portrait, Jim, my mate,
who Btope in the room, hoUowa to me, ' la it
bona? ' That ia« — ^Is it good ? If it is, I aay,
*8ay.' That ia,— Yea. If not, I aay • Nanti/
If it ia a good one he takea care to poblicly
expose that one, that all mi^ see it, aa a re>
commendation to othera. If I aay *Nanti,'
then Jim takes it and finishes it up, drying it
and patting it np in its frame. Then he
wraps it up in a largB piece of paper, so that
it will take aometime to unroll it, at the same
time erying out * Take sixpence from this
lady, if you please.' Sometimes she says, ' 0
let me see it first;' but he always answers,
< Money first, if you please ma'am ; nay for it
first, and then you can do what you like with
it Here, take sixpence from this lady.'
When she sees it, if it is a black one, she'll
say, * Why this ain't like me ; there's no pic-
ture at all.' Then Jim says, * It will become
better as it dries, and come to your natural
complexion.' If she still grumbles, he tells
her that if ahe likes to have it pa.ssed through
the brightening solution, it will come out
lighter in an hour or two. They in general
have it brightened ; and then, boforo their
face, we dip it into some water. We then dry
it off and replace it in the frwne, wrap it up
carefully, and tell them not to expose it to
the air, but put it in their bosom, and in an hour
or two it will be all right. This is only done
when the portrait come out black, as it doesnt
pay to take two for sixpence. Sometimes they
brings them back the next day, and sa^-s, * It's
not dried out as you told us ; ' and then we
take another poitrait, and charge them 3d.
more.
*' We also do what we call the * bathing,* —
another dodge. Now to-day a party came in
during a shower of rain, when it was so dark
it wfis impossible to take a portrait; or
they will come iif; sometimes, just as we
are shutting up, and when tlie gas is lighted,
to have their portraits taken; then we do
this. We never turn business away, and yet
it's impossible to take a portrait ; so we ask
them to ait down, and then we go through
the whole process of taking a portrait, only
we don't put any plate in the camera. We
alwaya make 'em sit a long time, to make 'em
think it's all rigfat,-»I've had them for two.
ond^a-half minutes, till tlieir eyea run down
with water. We then tell them that we've
taken the portrait, but that we shall have
to keep ii all night in the ehemical bath
to bring it out, beoanae the weathcHi 9^
bad. We always take the money aa a daposit,
and give them a written paper aa an orto for
the pistnre. If in the morning th^ come
thonaelvea we get them to ait again, and then
we do really take a portrait of them ; but iT
they send anybody, we either say thflt tba
bath was too strong and eat the picture oot^
or that it waa too weak and didn't biingiioiit;
or elae I blow up Jim, and pretend he ham^
npaet the bath and broke the pietnre. W»
have had aa many aa ten pictnrea to bathe ii^
one afternoon.
^* If the eyes in a portrait are not seen, and
they complain, we take a pin and dot them ;
and that brings the eye out^ and they like iu
If the hair, too, is not viaible we takea the
pin again, and soon puts in a beantifbl head
of hair. It requires a deal of nerve to do it;
but if they still grumble I say, * It's a beauti-
M picture, and worth half-a-crown, at the
least;' and in the end they generally go off
contented and happy.
**' When we are not busy, we always fill up
the time taking specimens for the window.
Anybody who'£ sit we take him ; or we do one
another, and the yoimg woman in the shop
who colours. Specimens are very useM
tilings to us, for this reason, — if anybody
comes in a hnrrr, and won't give us tintc to
do the picture, then, as we can't atfbnl to let
her go, we sit her and goes through all the
business, and I says to Jim, ' Get one from the
window,' and then he takes the first specimea
that comes to hand. Then we fold it up in
paper, and dont allow her to see it until she
pays for it, and toll her not to expose it to
the air for throe days, and that if then fthe
doesn't approve of it and will call again we
will take her another. Of course they in
general comes back. Wo have made some
queer mistakes doing this. One day a young
lady come in, and wouldn't wait, so Jim takes
a specimen from the window, and, as Indc
would have it, it was the portrait of a widow
in her cap. She insisted upon oponing. and
then she said, ' This isn't me ; it's got a
widow's cap, and I was never married in all
my life I ' Jim answers, * Oh, miss ! why it's a
beautiful picture, and a correct likent^s,'—
and so it wus, and no lies, but it wasn't of
her. — Jim talked to her, and says ho, * Why
this ain't a cap, it's the shadow of the hair, —
for she had ringlets, — and she positively
took it away believing that such was the case;
and even promised to send us customers, which
she did.
^* There was another lady that came in a
hurry, and would stop if we were not more than
a minute ; so Jim ups with a specimen, with>
out looking at it, and it was the picture of a
woman and her child. We went through the
business of focussing the camera, and then
gave her the portrait and took the fid. When
she saw it she cries out, * Blees me ! thero's a
ohild: Ihafentne'erachildr ^mlookedil
\
LOyjMJf ZABOUM AND THS LONDON POOB.
then 8t the piotare, as if comp«ring,
he, ' It is certeinly a wonderfal like-
Sp tnd one of the beet we ever took.
1^ you eat ; aod what has oocasioned
hild passing throngh the yard.' She
mpposed it most be so, aod took the
way highly delighted.
A sailor came in, and as he was in
hoYed on to him the picture of a ear-
rho was to call in the afternoon for
ait. The jacket was dork, but there
Lte waistcoat; still I persuaded him
IS his blue Guernsey which had come
ight, and he was so pleased that he
dL instead of ^d. The fact is, x>eople
w ^eir own faces. Half of 'em have
ked in a gloss half a dozen times in
and directly they see a pair of eyes
le, th^ fancy they are their own.
on^ time we were done was with an
in. We had only one specimen left,
was a sailor man, veiy dark — one of
. pictures. But she put on hor spec-
d she looked at it np and down, and
I ? ' I said, ' Did yuu speak, ma'am ?'
tries, * TN'hy, this is a man I here's the
' I left-, and Jim tried to humbug her,
bursting with laughing. Jim said,
ma'am ; and avery excellent likeness,
rou.' But she kept on saying, * Non-
lint a man,' and wouldn't have it.
ad her to leave a deposit, and come
bat she never called. It was a little
e was an old woman come in once and
I be taken with a favourite hen in her
ras a very bad picture, and so black
i nothing but the outline of her face
ite speck for the beak of the bird,
e saw it, she asked where the bird
I Jim took a pin and scratched in on
said, * There it is, ma'am — that's her
oming out,' and then he made a line
mb on the head, and she kept saying,
ful ! ' and was quite delighted,
only bad money we have taken was
ethodist clergyman, who came in for
portrait lie gave us a bad six-
lolouring we charge d(f. more. If tlie
are bad or dark wo tell them, that if
\ them coloured tlie likeness will be
We flei^h tlie face, scratch the eye in,
the coat and colour the tablecloth.
es the girl who does it puts in such
lesh paint, that you can scarcely dis>
a foature of the person. If they
we tell them it will be all right when
re's dry. If it's a good picture, the
sks veiy nice, but in the black ones
diged to stick it on at a tremendous
lake it show.
Uands at the door, and he keeps on
A. ooirect portrait, fkiunod and glazed,
•noe, beautifully enamelled.' Then,
ly are listeniDgi h« shows the qpaciiua
in his hands, and adds^'If not approved ol^ao
charge made.'
«« One morning, when we had been doing
*quisby,' that is, stopping idle, we hit upon
anoth^ dodge. Some fhends dropped in to
see me, and as I left to aoeompany them to a
tavern close by, I cried to Jim, ' Take that
public-house opposite.' He brought the
camera and stand to the door, and a mob soon
oolleoted. He kept saying, ' Stand back, gen-
tlemen, stand back! I am about to take the
public-house in firont by this wonderfdl pro-
cess.' Then he went over to the house, and
asked the landlord, and asked some gentlemen
drinking there to step into the road whilst he
took the house with them facing it. Then
he went to a policeman and asked him to stm>
the carts from i>asaing, and he actually did.
By this way he got up a tremendous mob.
He then put in the slide, pulled off the cap of
tlie camera, and focussed the house, and nre-
tended to take the picture, though he had
no prepared glass, nor nothing. When he
had done, he called out, * Portraits taken in
one minute. We are now taking portraits for
(id. only. Time of sitting, two seconds only.
Step inside and have your'n taken imme-
diately.' There was a reprular rush, and I had
to be fetched, and we took i\t, worth right off.
*' People seem to think the camera will do
anything. We actually persuade them that it
wiU mesmerise them. After their portrait is
taken, we ask them if they would like to be
mesmerised by the camera, and the charge is
only 'id. We tlien focus the camera, and tell
them to look firm at the tube ; and they stop
there for two or three minutes staring, till their
eyes begin to water, and then they complain of a
dizziness in tlie head, and give it up, saying they
* can't stand it.' I always tell them the operation
was beginning, and Uiey were just going off^
only they didn't stay long enough. They always
remark, *Well, it certainly is a wonderfiil
machine, and a most curious invention.' Onoe
a ooalheaver came in to be mesmerised, but he
got into a rage after five or six minutes, and
said, * Strike me dead, ain't you keeping me
a while I ' He wouldn't stop still, so Jim told
him his sensitive nerves was too powerftil, and
sent him off cursing and swearing because he
couldn't be mesmerised. We don't have many
of these mesmerism customers, not more than
four in these five months ; but it's a curioua
circumstance, proving what fools people is.
Jim si^ he only introduces those games when
business is dull, to keep my spirits up— and
they certainly are most laughable.
'* I also profess to remove warts, which I do
by touching them with nitric acid. My price
is a penny a wart, or a shilling for the job ; for
some of the hands is pretty well smothered
with them. You see, we never turn money
away, for it's hard work to make a living at
sixpenny portraits. My wart patients seldom
coma twice, for theysereama out ten thousand
whea the adyi hitM th«u
310
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOB.
** Another of my callings is to dye the hair.
You see I have a good many refuse baths,
which is mostly nitrate of silver, the same as
idl hair-dyes is composed ot I dyes the
whiskers and moustache for U, The worst of
it is, that nitrate of silver also blacks the skin
wherever it touches. One fellow with carroty
hair came in one day to have his whiskers
died, and I went clumsily to woric and let the
stuff trickle down his chin and on his cheeks,
as well as making the flesh at the roots as
black as a hat. He came the next day to have
it taken off, and I made him pay 9d, more, and
then removed it with cyanide, which certainly
-did dean him, but made him smart awfully.
" I have been told that there are near upon
-250 houses in London now getting a livelihood
taking sixpenny portraits. There's ninety of 'em
I'm personally acquainted with, and one man
I know has ten different shops of his own.
There's eight in the Whitechapel-rcad alone,
from Butcher-row to the Mile-end turnpike.
Bless you, yes ! they all make a good living at it.
Why, I could go to-morrow, and they would be
glad to employ me at 21, a-week — indeed
they have told me so.
** If we had begun earlier this summer, we
could, only with our little affair, have made
from 8/. to 10/. a-week, and about one-third of
that is expenses. You see, I operate myself,
and that cuts out 2/. a-week.**
The Pehnt Pbofile-Cutteiu
Thb young man from whom the annexed
statement was gathered, is one of a class of
street-artists now fast disappearing from view,
but which some six or seven years ago occu-
pied a very prominent position.
At the period to which I allude, the steam-
boat excursionist, or visitor to the pit of a
London theatre, whom Nature had favoured
with very prominent features, oftentimes
found displayed to publio view, most unex-
pectedly, a tolerably correct profile of himself
in black paper, mounted upon a white card.
As soon as attention was attracted, the ex-
hibitor generally stepped forward, offering, in
■a respectltd manner, to " cut out any lady*s
or gentleman's likeness for the small sum of
one penny ;" an offer which, judging from the
account below given as to the artist's takings,
fieems to have been rather favourably re-
sponded to.
The appearance presented by the profile-
cutter from whom I derived my information
bordered on the " respectable." He was a tall
thin man, with a nanrow face and long fea-
tures. His eyes were large and animated.
He was dressed in black, and the absence of
shirt collar round his bare neck gave Um a
dingy appearance. He spoke as follows : —
" I'm a penny profile-cutter, or, as we in the
profession call ourselves, a profiUst. I com.
menced cutting profiles when I was 14 years
of age, always acquiring a taste for cutting out
ornaments, &c My father's avers
able man, and been in one situation
I left school against his wish when
years old, for I didn't like school mud
mind you, I'm a good scholar. I e
much, but I can read anything. Aft
school, I went arrand-boy to a pri
was there nine months. I had 4s. 6d.
Then I went to a lithographic printer^
a double-action press, but the work
hard fbr a boy, and so I left it I s'
about nine weeks, and then I was on
some time, and was living on my pi
next went to work at a under-priced
termed a ' knobstick's,' but I was
with the pric« paid fbr labour. I wa
maker. I learned my first task in fo
and could do it as well as those who'
it for months. I eam'd good mon
didn't like it, for it was boys keeping
of employment who'd served their se
to the trade. I left the hatter's after
there two seasons, and then I was ou
for some months. One day I went t
the Tenter-ground, Whitechapel. Wl
walking about the fiiir, I see a jom
knew standing as 'doorsman' at i
cutter's, and he told me that anothe
cutter in the fair wanted an assise
thought I should do for it He kno
handy at drawing, because he wi
hatter's along with me, and I used to i
men's likenesses on the shop door. S
to this man and engaged. I had U
the door, or * tout,* as we call it, an
mount the likenesses on cards. I w
backward at touting at first, but I
that in the course of the day, ax
patter like anything before the 'day •
I had to shout out, ' Step inside, la
gentlemen, and have a correct liken*
for one penny.' We did a very good
the two dajs of the fair that I attend
was not there till the second day.
about 4/., but not all for penny likenc
cause, if we put the likeness on
charged 2(^, and if they was btoi
charged 6<2., and if they were fna
plete, Is, My pay was 4». per day, a
found in my keep.
" When the Tenter-ground fair n
the profilist asked me if I'd travel i
and I agreed upon stated terms. ]
have 4a. for working days, and Is. ai
and lodgings &c. for off-days. So w
next day for Luton * Statties/ or Sti
it should be called. Luton is 32 mi
London, and this we walked, carrying
the booth and every requisite for busi
whole of the distance. I had not
father's leave ; I didn't ask for it, b
knew he'd object We started for I
12 o'clock in the day, and got thex
o'clock at night, and our load was nc
light un, fbr I'm sure the pair of us
have had less than 3 cwt to carry. Iwa
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
ail
thAt I dropt down about a mile before we got
to the town, bat a stranger came ap and offered
to cany my load for me the rest of the journey.
I went to sleep on the bank, though it was so
lata aft night. While I was sleeping the horse-
patrol came along and woke me up. He told
me I'd better get on, as I'd only a nule to go. I
99t op and proceeded on, and turning the corner
of the road, I distinctly saw the lights of Luton,
which enlivened me very much. I reached the
town about a half.an-hour after my mate. We
had a very good fair. Fossett was there with
his performing birds and mice, and a nice con-
cern it was ; but since then he's got a fust-rate
areas. He travels the country still, and his
(tmoem is worthy a visit from any body.
There was Frederick's theatrical booth there,
isd a good many others of the same sort
"We did veiy well, having no opposition,
for we cut out a great many likenesses, and
most of them twopenny ones. It's a great
place for the straw-plaiters, but there's about
stfeo women to one man. There was plenty
of agricultural men and women there as well,
•nd most of the John and Molls had their pro-
files cut. If a ploughman had his cut, he
mostly gave it to bis sweetheart, and if his girl
had hers cut out, she returned the compli-
ment
** From Luton we went to Stourbitch fair,
Cambridge, and there we had very bad luck, for
we had to build out of the fair, alongside of
mother likeness-booth, and it was raining all
the while. We cut out very few likenesses, for
we didn't take above a half a sovereign the
whole three days.
^ Aiter leading Stourbitch, we took the road
far Peterborough-bridge fair. Being a cross-
comitry road, there was no conveyance, and
not liking tlie job of carrying our traps, we got
a man who had a donkey and barrow to put
our things aside of his own, and we agreed to
pay him 4f . for the job. After we'd got about
ten miles on the road, the donkey stopt shoi-t,
snd wouldn't move a peg. We didn't know
what to do for the best. At last one of our
party pulled off his hat and rattled a stick in
it. The donkey pricked up his ears wiUi fright,
and darted off like one o'clock. After a bit he
stopt again, and then we had to repeat the
dose, and so we managed at last to get to
Peterborough. We had out-and-out luck at
this fair, for we cut out a great many like-
nesses, and a rare lot of 'em were bronzed.
We took in the three days about 6/. This is
■apposed to be a great fair, and it's supported
principally by respectable people. Some of
the people that came for profiles were quite
gentlefolks, and they brought their fanulies
with them ; they're the people we like, because
they believe we can cut a likeness, and stand
BtUl while we're doing it. But the lower
Qtdem are no good to anybody, for when they
eater the booth they get larking, and make
deriaons, and won't atand still; and when
thatfi the case, we don't take any trouble, but
cut out anything, and say it's like 'em, and
then they often say, * Ah, it's as much like
me as it's like him.' But we always manage
to get the money. There was a good many
dashing young shop chaps came and had their
portraits taken. They dress very fine, because
thejr've got no other way to spend their money,
for there's no theatre or concert-rooms in the
place.
" We went, after leaving Peterborough, to two
or three other fairs. At lost we got to a fair in
Huntingdonshire, and there I quarrelled with
my mate, because he caught me practising
with his scissors ; so I went into a stall next
to where we stood and bought a penny pair ;
but the pair I picked out was a sixpenny pair
by rights, for they had fell off a sixpenny card
by accident. I practised with tliem, whenever
I got a chance. We got on pretty well, too, at
this f^. We took about 3/. in the three days.
When we got to our lodgings — the first night
was at a public house — I got practising again,
and my mate snatched my scissors out of my
hand, and never gave them to me any more
till we got on to the road for another fair.
When he gave them to me I asked what he
took 'em away for, and he said I'd no business
to practise in a pubhc-house ; and I told him
I should do as I liked, and that I could cut
as good a likeness as him, and I said, * Give
me my money and I'll go,' — for he'd only paid
me a few shillings all the time I'd been with
him — but he wouldn't pay me, and so we
worked two or three more fairs together. One
day, going along the road, we stopped at a
public-house to get some dinner. There was
a little boy playing with a ship. * Now,' says I,
^ I'll show you I can cut a better likeness than
you, or, at all events, a more saleable one.' I
took my scissors up for the first time in public,
and cut out the httle boy full length, with the
ship in his hand and a little toy horse by his
side, but could not bronze it, because I'd not
practised the brush. I pencilled the little
landscape scene behind, and when I showed
it to my mate he was surprised, but he found
many faults which he himself could not im-
prove upon. I sold the likeness to the boy's
mother for a shilling, before his face, and of
course he was nettled. After dinner we
started off again, making for Bedford fair;
we'd sent our things on by the rail, and we
soon begim talking about my cutting out He
wondered how I'd acquired it, and when I
told him I'd practised hours imbeknown to
him, he agreed that I should be a regular
partner — pay half the expenses, and have
half of the profits, and begin the next fair.
When we got there the fair was very dull, and
business very bad ; we only took 11#. ; he cut
out all the busts, and I did all the fUl-lengths.
He was very bad at fulllcngths, because he'd
got no idea of proportion, but I could always
get my proportions right. I could always
draw when I was a boy, and cut out figures
for night-shades. Many a time, when I was
313
LONDOy LABOUR AXD THE LONDOS POOR,
only eip;ht yean nld« I'vo smiM^ a whole room
fall of people with ' Cobbler Jobson ' and ' The
Bridge is broken.'
** As thinffs worr» so bad at Bedford, we agreed
to come up to London, and not stop the other
two days of the fair. "Whfn I came down
Btnirs in the inominj? at \) o'cbx'k, I found my
mnie hod litdted hy ih«» flve-o'clock train . and
li.tt ine ill tin- hircii. HoM jmid tho rt-cktinln?,
but lie liatln't VW nu* a shilling of th«^ niom-y
thiit hi- owed me. I had vi'iT litilc money in my
IMwket, bwmisn heM b*?cn rn>]! -taker, and *^o I
had to tramp the whole fifty mib'H to I^mdon.
"Wlien I n'fu.'h«'d London, 1 found out whore he
IIvinU and suort^ulcd in j;i?ttinR my inonry
i^ithin a few shillin^js. The next thhig I <Ud
was to join another man in opening a shop in
Tendon, in the profile lino— lio f.iuml capital
and I found talent, and \vy\ woll v.e diiL
Mo8t of our customers weiv workin,' p«M»ple,
and often they'd come and have two or three
likenesses, to R«'nd to th(»ir friends who'd emi-
pmte<l, because they'd go easy in a letter.
There was on«» old gentleman tliat 1 had come
tome regularly rverj' momiiu:. for ni:irly three
monthH, anil hud thni^ penny liken«'*;r«Hs cut
out, for which h" would always jKiy sixpi'm-e.
He had an excellent profile, an. I was ca^^y to cut
ont ; he was one of those club-no$ed oM nun,
with a def>p brow and doublo <'hin. Ono
morning he bmught all of them back thnt I
had taken, and a«ked us what we'd givi» for
the lot. I tfdd him they wore no use to me.
for if 1 had thmi for specimens people would
aay that I could cut only tme sort of face,
because they were all alike. Af^er chafUng for
aboat half an hour, he said he had brought
them all back to have shirt collars cut, and
to have them put on cards. AVe put them
all on cards and he paid us a penny for each
one, and when ho took 'em away he said he
was going to distribute them among his
friends. One day a gentleman roile up and
asked us how much woM charge to cut
him out, horse and all. I told him we
hadn't any papi»r larpre enough just then, but
il' he'd call another day we'd do it fw »U, (W.
I!eat;n^ed to give it, and call the foUoi^-ing
i:.>ti'ninf^. 1 knew I couldn't cut out a horse
i,.>try,-t, so T bought a piottire of a race-horse
fi»r Orf., and cut it out in black profile paper,
and when he came tlio next day as he sat on his
lior«o ontsido, so I cut his likeness, and when
I'd finished it I called him in, and he declared
tliat it was the best likeness, both of him and
his horse, too. tlnit he'd ever seen ; and it
appears he had his horse painted in oil.
When he pai<l us, instead of giWng us .1«. 6rf.
as he'd agreed, he gave us 5«. Af^r being at
this shop for five months, traile got so bad we
had to leave. The first month we took on the
average 10«. a-day, but it gradually decreased
till at last we didn't tAke more than about 3a.
a-day. It was winter, to be stu^. Before we left
this shop we got another to go into, a mile or
two ofiT; bat this turned out quite a failure,
and we only kept on a month, for ws B«rar
got higher Uian three or four shillings a^daT,
and the rent alone was Ms. per week The
next shop we took was in a low neighbonr-
hood, and we got a comfortable living fai it.
I idways did the cutting out, and my partner
the timting. We stopped in this place nine
w«?eks, and then things begun to get slank
bore, so we thought we'd try the suburbs, saoh
a^t Hi;?hgato, (^lapham. atid Kensingtoa,
plaros ilireo or four mil«ys out. We usied to
hang specimens outside the publichonses
wiioi-o wo took our lodgings, and engage a
ro(im to cut in. In this way we managed to
gel the winter over very comfortable, but mj
juirtiior was taken ill just as we'd k*nocked o^
and had to go in the hospital, and so I now
thought I'd tnr what is termed * busking ; ' that
is, going into public-houst'S and cutting lika-
ncsses of the company. I often met nith
rough customers; thoy used to despise the iiIf
genuity of the art, and say, • Why don't joa
go to work? I've got a chap that ain't so hSgap -
yon, and he goes to work ; ' and things of mtk
kind. On Satunlay nights I'd take such A
thing as fli. or 8j., principally in penee, bil
on other nights not more than 2i. or 2f. 9dL :
these were mostly tap -room customers, bat
when tliey'd let me go in a parlour I could do
a good night's work in a little time, and the
company would treat me better. I soon left
otr busking, l>ecause I didn't like the people I ^
had to do with, and it was such a troable to
get the money when they were half tipflj.
1 never worked in theatres, biX'aase I didn't
lik(> tlic pushing about ; but I've known a man
to get a good living at the theatres andatean-
boiits alone. I took to steam- boata myidf
when I left off public-houses, working mostly
in the Gravesend boats on the Sunday, and the
lia'penuy boats on the week-days. I've taken
iM^'ore now l-ka. of a Sunday, and I used to
van- in the ha'penny boats from 2j. to 4«. a-d^.
" I .'dways attend Greenwich-park regnlariy
at holiday times, but never have a booth at
tht> fair, because I can do better moving
about. I have a frame of specimens tied
round a tree, and get a boy to hold the paper
and canls. At this I've taken as much as SOi.
in one day, and though there was lota of cheq»
photographio booths down there last Easter
Monday, in spite of 'em all I took above 8*. WL
in the afternoon. Battersea- fields and Chalk-
farm used to be out-and-out spots on a Sundiff,
at one time. I've often taken such a tiling is
•')05. on a Sunday afternoon and evening in thl
summer. After I left the steam-boats I buill
myself a small booth, and travelled the country
to fairs, ' statties,' and feasts, and got a veiy
comfortable living; but now the cheap photo-
graphs have completely done up profiles, so
I'm compelled to tmm to that. But I think I
shall learn a trade, for that'll be better than j
either of them.
" The best work Tve had of late yean h»
been at the teetotal festivals. I was it
LONIMN LABOUR AND THE LONDON FOOR.
214
AjlMJmiy with tfafim, at St. AUmn's, Luton,
•od Gore House. At Gore House last August,
wlwn the 'Bands ol Hope ' were there, I took
abontajiiTi"
Buio> Pbotzlb-Cutteb.
JL CHBKBruL blmd man, well known to all
cwsning Waterloo or Hungerford-bridges,
gave me the following account of liis figure-
«atdng>-~
** I had the measles when I was seven, and
became blind ; but my sight was restored by
Dr. Jeffrey, at old St. George's Hospital. After
that I had several relapses into total blindness
in eoQsequence of colds, and since 1B40 I have
bees quite blind, excepting that I can partially
distinguish the sun and the gas-lights, and
Moh-like, with the left eye only. I am now
Q, and was brought up to house-painting.
When I was last attacked with blindness I was
to go into St Martin's workhouse,
» I underwent thirteen operations in two
jMors. When I came out of the workhouse I
itejed the German flute in the street, but it
via only a noise, not music, sir. Then I
sold boot-laces and tapes in the stxeet, and
anraged 5«. a-week by it — certainly not
more. Next I made little wooden tobacco-
stoppcn in the street, in the shape of
kgi— they^ called *legs.' The first day
I started in that line — it was in Totten-
ham-court-road— >I was quite elated, for I
nuuia half-a-crown. I next tried it by St.
Clemenrs-chnrch, but I found that I cut my
hands so with the knives and files, that I had
to pre ii up, and I then took up with the trade
of eotting out profiles of animals and birds,
and ^tesque human figures, in card. I
titabhshed myself soon after I began this
tade by the Victoria-gate, Bayswater; that
wasfts beat pitch I ever had— one day I took
Ui.* and I avsraged SOs. a-week for six weeks,
▲t last the inspector of police ordered me off.
AJler that I was shoved about by the pohce,
sooh crowds gathered round me, until I at
length go4 leave to cany on my business by
Waterloo-bridge ; that's seven years ago. I
lemained theve till the opening of Hungerford-
bridge, in May 1B45. I sit there cold or fine,
winter or summer, every day but Sunday, or
if I'm iU. I often hear odd remarks from
people crossing the bridge. In winter time,
ih^ Fve been cold and hungry, and so poor
that I couldn't get my clothes properly mended,
om has said, * Look at that poor blind man
there;' and another (and oft enough, too) has
answered, 'Poor bhod man! — he has better
doihes and more money than you or me;
it's all done to excite pity!' I can gene-
rally tell a gentleman's or lady's voice, if
they^ the real thing. I can tell a purse-
proud man's voice, too. He says, in a
dumincering, hectoring way, as an ancient
Boman might speak to liis idave, ' All, ha ! my
good fellow ! how do you sell these things 1 '
Since January last, I may hsfte arranged 8s.
a-week — that's the outside. The working
and the middling classes are my best friaads*
I know of no other man in my particular liaa^
and I've often inquired onneeming ai^."
WbITKB WXTBOtJT HaXDS.
The next in order are the Writers without
Hands and the Chalkers on ilag-stones.
A man of 61, bom in the crippled state he
described, toll, and with an intelhgentlook and
good manners, gave me this account :—
" I was bom without hands— -merely the
elbow of the right arm and the joint of the
wrist of t})e lefL I have rounded stumps. I
was bom mthout feet also, merely the ankle
and heel, just as if my feet were out off close
within the instep. My father was a farmer in
Cavan county, Ireland, and gave me a fair edu-
cation. He had me taught to write. I'll show
you how, sir.' ( Here he put on a pair of spec-
tacles, using his stumps, and then holding the
pen on one stump, by means of the other he
moved the two together, and so wrote his
name in an old-fashioned hand.) 'I was
taught by an ordinary schoolmaster. I served
an ^prenticeship of seven years to a turner,
near Cavan, and could work well at the turning,
but couldn't chop the wood veiy well. I
handled my tools as I've shown you I do my
pen. I came to London in 1814, having a
prospect of getting a situation in the India-
house; but I didn't get it, and waited for
eighteen months, until my Amds and my
father's help were exhausted, and I then took
to making fancy screens, flower-vases, and
hand-raclu in the streets. I did very well at
them, making 15<. to 20«. a-week in Uie sum*
mer, and not half that, perhaps not much
more than a third, in the winter. I continue
this work still, when my health permits, and I
now make handsome ornaments, flower- vases,
<S^. for the quality, and have to work before
them frequently, to satisfy them. I could do
very well but for ill-health. I chaise from 0«.
to 8s. for hand-screens, and from Is, 6d. to I6s.
for flower- vases. Some of the quality pay me
handsomely — some are very near. I have
done little work in the streets this way, except
in very fine weather. Sometimes I write
tickets in the street at a halfpenny each. The
police never interfere unless the thoroughfare
is obstructed badly. My most frequent writing
is, ' Naked come I into the world, and naked
shall I retmrn.' 'The Lord giveth, and the
Lord iakeih away; blessed be the name of
the Lord.' To that I add my name, the date
sometimes, and a memorandum that it was the
writing of a man bom without hands or feet.
When I'm not disturbed, I do pretty well,
getting 1». 6d, a-day ; but that's an extra day.
The boys are a great worry to me. Working
people are my only friends at the writing,
and women the best My best pitches are
Tottenham-court-road and the West-end tho-
No. LXVIL
214
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
roughfares. There's three men I know who
write without hands. They're in the coimtry
chiefly, traveUing. One man writes with his
toes, but chiefly in the public-houses, or with
showmun. I consider that I am the only man
in the world who is a handicraftsman without
hands or feet. I am married, and have a
grown-up fkmily. Two of my sons are in
America, one in Australia, one a sailor, the
others are emigrants on the coast of Africa,
and one a cabinet-maker in London — all fine
fellows, well made. I had fifteen in alL My
father and mother, too, were a handsome, well-
made couple."
ChALKEB on FULO-STOHXS.
A 8P1BB, sad-looking man, very poorly dressed,
gave me the followins statement. He is well-
Imown by his colonred drawings upon the flag-
stones :«-
** I was usher in a school for three years,
and had a paralytic stroke, which lost me my
employment, and was soon the cause of great
poverty. I was fond of drawing, and colour-
mg drawings, when a child, using sixpenny
boxes of colours, or the best my parents could
procure me, but I never had leesons. I am a
self-taught man. When I was reduced to
distress, and indeed to starvation, I thought
of tiying some mode of living, and remem-
bering having seen a man draw mackerel on
the flags in the streets of Bristol 20 years ago,
I thought I would tiy what I could do that
way. I first tried my hand in the New Kent-
road, attempting a likeness of Napoleon, and
it was passable, though I can do much better
now ; I made half-a-crown the first day. I
saw a statement in one of your letters that I
was making 1/. a-day, and was giving 14<f.
for a shilling. I never did : on the contraiy,
Tve had a pint of beer given to me by pub-
lioans for supplying them with copper. It
doesn't hurt me, so that you need not con-
tradict it unless you like. The Morning
Chronicle letters about us are frequently
talked over in the lodging-houses. It's 14
or 10 years since I started in the New Eent-
xoad, and I've followed up * screeving,' as it's
sometimes called, or drawing in coloured
chalks on the fla^- stones, until now. I im-
proved with practice. It paid me well; but
m wet weather I have made nothing, and
have had to run into debt A good day's
work I reckon 8«. or lOf. A very good day's
work? I should be glad to get it now. I
have made 15«. in a day on an extraordinary
occasion, but never more, except at Green-
wich fair, where I've practised ^ese 14 years.
I don't suppose 1 ever cleared 1/. a^week all
the year round at screeving. For I/, a- week
I would honestly work my hardest. I have
a wife and two children. I would draw trucks
or be a copying clerk, or do anything for 1/.
a-week to get out of the streets. Or I would
like regular employment as a painter in
crayons. Of all my paintings the Cliritftfk
heads paid the best, but ven- little better than
the Napoleon's heads. The Waterloo-bridge-
road was a favourite spot of mine fbr a pitch*
Euston- square is another. These two were
my best. I never chalked ' starving ' on the
flags, or anything of that kind. 'There an
two imitators of me, but they do bad^. )
don't do as well as I did 10 years ago, but
rm making Ids. a-week all the year through.**
v.— EXHIBITORS OF TRAINED
ANIMALS.
The Hafft Family Ezhibitoiu
" Happy Families," or assemblages of a
of diverse habits and propensities living ta^
cably, or at least quietly, in one cage, are so
well known as to need no further descriptioB
here. Concerning them I received the Al-
lowing account : —
*'I have been three years connected wttb
happy families, living by such connexioo.
These exhibitions were first started at Co-
ventiy, sixteen years ago, by a man who wjlv
my teacher. He was a stocking-weaver, and
a fancier of animals and birds, having a good
many in his place — hawks, owls, pigeon^
starlings, cats, dogs, rats, mice, guinea-pig%
jackdaws, fowls, ravens, and monkeys. He
used to keep them separate and for his omt
amusement, or would train them for salfl^
teaching the dogs tricks, and such-like. He
found his animals agree so well together, ftti
he had a notion — and a snake-charmer, an
old Indian, used to advise him on the subject
— that he could show in public animals and
birds, supposed to be one another's enemies
and victims, living in quiet together. ISm £d
show them in public, beginning with eats»
rats, and pigeons in one cage ; and then kept
adding by degrees all the other creatures I
have mentioned. He did veiy well at Co-
ventry, but I don't know what he took. Wb
way of training the animals is a secret, which
he has taught to me. It's principally doofl^
however, I may tell you, by continued kindwwi
and petting, and studying the nature of the
creatures. Hundreds have tried their handi
at happy fiEunilies, and have failed. The cit
has killed the mice, the hawks have killed the
birds, the dogs the rats, and even Uie ata^
the rats, the birds, and even one another;
indeed, it was anything but a happy family.
By our system we never have a mishap ; and
have had animals eight or nine years in the
cage — until they*ve died of age, indeed. In
our present cage we have 54 birds and ani-
mals, and of 17 diflTerent kinds ; 8 cats, 2 dogs
(a terrier and a spaniel), 2 monkeys, 2 mag-
pies, 2 jackdaws, 2 jays, 10 starlings (some of
them talk), 6 pigeons, 2 hawks, 2 bam fo^
1 screech owl, 5 common-sewer rats, 6 white
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOB,
215
nte \2k novelty), 8 guinea-pigs, 2 rabbits (1
wild and 1 tame), 1 hedgehog, and 1 tortoise.
Of all these, the rat is the most difficult to
make a member of a happy family ; among
birds, the hawk. The easiest trained animal
is a monkey, and the easiest trained bird a
pigeon. They live together in their cages all
night, and sleep in a stable, imattended by
«&y one. They were once thirty.six hours, as
a tiial, without food — that was in Cambridge ;
and no creature was ii^ured; but they were
very peckish, especially the birds of prey. I
wouldn't allow it to be tried (it was for a
sdentifio gentleman) uny longer, and I fed
them well to begin upon. There are now in
London five happy families, all belonging to
two families of men. Mine, that is the one I
have the care of, is the strongest — fifty-four
.features : the others will average forty each,
iqr 214 birds and beasts in happy families.
Our only regular places now are Waterloo-
iffidge and the National Gallery. The expense
(tf keeping my fifty-four is 12«. a-week ; and in
a good week — indeed, the best week — we take
fl(^; and in % bad week sometimes not 8«.
If 8 only a poor trade, though there are more
good weeks than bad : but the weather has so
.much to do with it The middle class of
•odety are our best supporters. When the
happy family— only one — was first in Lon-
don, fourteen years ago, the proprietor took
It a-day on Waterloo-bridge ; and only showed
'in the summer. The second happy family
was started eight years ago, and did as well
^ a short time as the first. Now there are
iloo many happy families. There are none in
4bi countiy.''
The OxuaiNAL XIappy Fasiilt.
"The first who ever took out a happy family to
exhibit in the streets was a man of the name
of John Austin, who lived in Nottingham.
It was entirely his own idea, and he never
eopied it from any one. He was a very in-
genious man indeed, and fond of all kinds of
■Miimftlo, and a fancier of all kinds of smdl
birds. From what I have heard him say, he
iiad a lot of cats he was very fond of, and also
some white-mice, and the notion struck him
that it would be very extraordinaiy if he could
Jnake his pets live together, and teach crea-
tures of opposite natures to dwell in the same
eage. In the commencement of his experiments
he took the young, and learnt them to live
h^pUy together. He found it succeed very
wdl indeed; and when he gets this to his
liking he goes from Nottingham to Manchester,
aud exhibits them, for he was told that people
would like to see the curious sight. He then
had cats, mice, and all sorts of little birds.
He was a weaver by trade, was Austin — a
stocking- weaver. He didn't exhibit for money
in Manchester. It was his hobby and amuse-
ment, and he only showed it for a curiosity
to his friends. Then he was persuaded to
come to London to exhibit When he first
came to London he turned to carpentering
and cabinet-making work, for which he had a
natural gift, and he laid the happy family
aside. He didn't know London, and couldn't
make his mind up to exhibiting in a strange
place. At last he began to miss bis pets;
and then he gathered them together again,
one here and one there, as he could get
them into training. When he had a little
stock round him he was adrised by people to
build a cage, and take them out to exhibit
them.
" There was no bridge to the Waterloo-
road in those days, but he took up his pitch
in Waterloo-road, close to the Feathers publio
house, where the foot of Waterloo-bridge . ia
now. He had a tremendous success. Every-
body who passed gave him money. Noblemen
and gentlepeople came far and near to see the
sight. When first he went there he could go
out at four o'clock in the afternoon, on any fine
day as he thought proper to leave his work
to go out, and he could take from his lAa, to
1/. He stopped on this same spot, opposite
the Feathers public - house, from his first
coming to the day he left it, a short space
before he died, for 36 years all but 5 months.
He's been dead for four years the 17th of last
February, 1856, and then he wasn't getting
2«. 6c/. a-day. Many had imitated him, and
there was four happy family cages in London.
'When the old man saw people could do as
much OS he did himself, and rather got before
him in their collections, it caused him to
fret He was too old to return to caxpenteringi
and he had never been a prudent man, so ho
never saved anything. He was too generous
to his friends when they were distressed, and
a better man to his fellow-men never walked
in two shoes. If he made 5/. in a week, there
was money and food for them who wanted*
He foimd that people were not so generous
to him as he was to them ; that he proved to
his sorrow. Ho was a good man.
" In the year 1833 he had the honour of
exhibiting before Her M^esty the Queen.
She sent for him expressly, and he went to
Buckingham Palace. He never would tell
anybody what she gave him; but everybody
considered that he had been handsomely re-
warded. A few days after Uiis there was a
gentleman came to him at Waterloo-bridge
(he was there all the time the bridge was
building), and this party engaged Mm and
his happy family, and took him down to ex-
hibit at the Mechanics' Institution, down at
HulL I don't know what he got for the
journey. After that he was engaged to go to
the Mechanics' Institution in Liverpool. He
travelled in this way all about the country, en«
gaged at the difibrent Institutions.
**I was with him as assistant for eight
years before he died, and a better master
there could not be living in the world. I had
been travelling witf^ him through Kent,
210
LOKDOS LABOUR JNV THE LONDON POOR.
sliowng the happy family, and business nni
bad and did not meet his approbation, so he
nt Inst, said lie would return to his station on
Watcrhw-bridtjo. Then I wns left in the
countr}-, so I started a collection of animals
for my'strlf. It was a small collection of two
monkeys, white rats and piebald ones, cats,
dogs, hawks, owls, moj^pies, ferrets, and a cota-
mundi, a long-nosed animal Irom the Brosils.
^I came to London after working in the
conntr}'. He was perfectly agreeable to my
exhibiting in the streets. He was a good old
man, and I wish I knew how to be as good,
for I can't know how to be as good. I took
the West-end, and he kept to the bridge.
Por a time I did pretty well. I'd take about
0«. a>day, but then it cost me It. a-day for
feeding the collection: and then I had a
quanti^ of things given to me, such as bite of
meat at tlie butchers', and so on. In 1851 my
stand was in Re|j:ent-street, by the comer of
Castle-street. 1 did there \-er>* well when the
Exhibition was open, and as soon as it was
d(mc I fell from taking about 8». a-doj' down
to 1*., and that's sp(;aking the truth. Then I
shifted my post, and went and pitched upon
Tower-hill. I done pretty well for tlie first
18 montlis as I ^-as there. The sailors was
the most, generous people to me, and those I
had most to depend upon whilst I was on
Towor-liill. I've taken 8». in one day on
Tower-hill, and I've also been there, and stood
there eif^ht hours on Tower-hill and only taken
1}^. It was all casual as could be. I can
Bay I took on the average JJt. a-daj' then, and
then I had to feed the collection. I staved at
Tower-hiU till I found that there wasn't
jKJsitively a living to be made any longer
tliere, and then I shifted from place to place,
pitching at the comers of streets, and doing
worse and worse, until I actually hadnt
hardly strength to drag my cage about — for
it's a tidy load. Then I returns to the old
man's original spot, on Waterloo -bridge, to
try that ; for the old man was dead. The first
five or six weeks as 1 was there, during the sum-
mer, I got a tolerable good living, and I con-
tinned there till I wasn't able to get a crust
for myself. I was obliged to leave it ofl', and
•I got a situation to go to work for a firework-
maker in the Westminster-road. Now I only
take to the streets when I have no other em-
ployment. It isn't barely a living. I keep
my collection always by me, as a resoiut^
when no other work is in hand, but if I coald
get constant employment I'd never go out in
die streets no more.
*' The animal that takes the longest to tnun
IB the ferret. I was the first that ever intro-
dnced one into a cage, aitd that was at Qreen-
i»ich. It's a yery savage little animal, mad will
Bttadc almost anytliing. People have a notion
that we use drugs to train a happy family;
they have said to me, * It's done with opium ;'
but, sir, believe me, there is no drugs used at
all: it's only patience, and IdmhaiaM, and
pettinpT tliem that is used, and nothing ebie of
any surt. The first ferret as I had, it kiUad.
me about 2/. worth of things before I eonldget
him in any way to ^et into the happy
family. He destjroyed birds, and rabbitt, and
guinea-pigs ; and he'd seize them at an^ tjme^
wliether he was hangiy or not. I watched
that ferret till I eould see that then was a
better method to be used with a feiret, umL
then I sold my one to a rat-oaioher, and th«a
I bought two others. I tried my new mUaif.
and it succeeded. It's a secret whioh I wM,
so I can't mention it, but it's the aimpleet
thing in the world. It's not dnwing their
teeth out, or operating on them ; it* a only kmd-
ness and such. like, and patience. I put ay
new ferrets into the cage, and there they hsve
been ever since, as may ha^ been aeen on
'i*ower-hill and such places as Vre pitched on.
My ferrets would play with the rats and oleip
at night i^ith them, while I've put them in the
rat-box along with the rats, to cany them
home together at night. My ferrets would
come and eat out of my month and play inth
children, or anything. Now, Til tell yon thia
anecdote as a proof of their docility. They
caught a rat one night at the Coopers' Anna
publiC'house, Tower-hill, and they gave it to
me, and I put it into the cage. The landhod
and gentlemen in the parlour came out to aee
it, and they saw my ferrets hunt oat the new-
comer and kill him. They tossed <yver tha
white and brown and black rats that belonged
to me, and seized the public-house rat and
killed him. I always took the dead bodies
away when they were killed, and didnt let the
ferrets suck their blood, or anything of that.
I've trained my animals to that state, that if
I wasn't to feed Uiem they'd sit down and
starve by each otiicr's side without eating one
another.
** The monkey is almost as bad as a fenet
for training for a hoppy family, for this rea-
son— when they are playing they vrne theor
teeth. They are Uie best pU^-felJows in the
world, and never fall out or cij when they bite.
They ore the life and amusement of the eai»-
pany.
** Now, this is a curious thing with the
ferret's nature. If he's ever so well trained
for a happy family, he wUl always he avenged
if he's crossed. For instance, if the fenet haa
a bit of meat, and the hawk oomee near him
and claws him, he'll, if it's months aftawards^
kill that hawk. He'll wait a long time, bnt ha%
sure to kill the hawk, he's that ^tefhL So thai
when he's crossed he never forgives. When
the monkey and the ferret play, they always nee
their teeth, not to bite, bat it's their aatnre in
their play. Mr. Monkey, when he haa ph^yed
with Mr. Ferret till he has nade him in a rage,
will mount the perches and take Mr. Fen«t by
the tail and swing him backwards and ierwarda.
The ferret geu into an awftil nge* ud hell
try all he knows to get hold of Mr. Mookcy,
bat Mr. Monkey will pat him on the head, and
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
217
knoek him back as lie tries to turn round and
bite him . The ferret is the kindest of animals
vhen at plaj. He don't bear no rancour to
Ur. Monkey for this. He never cares for a bit
of ftm, bat if it's an insult as is offered him,
anch aa taking hia fix)d, he wont rest till he's
le danger with a znonkey is this. Now
IVe got a puppy as was give me by a friend of
■dne, and I both respects the gentleman as
give it me and the mother of the httle dog,
aod I've taken all the pains in the world to
tain thia pop to the happy family, but
hera a yelping noiung arumal. Now, my
mookqr is the most pleasant and best-
tempened one in the world, and the amuse-
ment and delight of all who see him, as
Biany on Waterloo-bridge can testify. When-
erer thia monkey goes near tlie dog« it
howls at him. So the monkey plays with him,
polling his tail and nibbling his ears and hair,
•nd biting his toe, and so on. Anything that'll
play with the monkey, it's all right, and they
■re the best friends in the world ; but if they
show any fear, then it's war, for the monkey
won't be put upon. Now, there's another pup
m the same cage which Uie monkey is just as
fond of. They play open-mouthed together,
and 1%'c seen Mr. Monkey put his arms rotmd
the pup's neck and pull it down, and thon they
go to sleep together. I've actually seen when
a lady has given the monkey a bit of biscuit,
or what not, he's gone and crumbled some bits
before the pup to give it its share. This is
truth. Hy monkey is a lady monkey.
^ The monkeys ore vexy fond of cuddling {he
xits in their arms, hke children. They also
pull their tails and swing them. The rats are
aftaid, and then Mr. Monkey keeps on teasing
them. If ever Mr. Bat do turn round and bite
Mr. Monkey, he's sure to feel it by and by, for
hell get a swing by his tail, and he'll catch the
tail whilst he's trying to run away, and bite
the tip, and worry him near out of his life. A
Monkey is the peace- maker and peace-breaker
of a collection. He breaks peace first and then
bell go and caress afterwards, as much as to
say, ' Never mind, it's only a lark.' He's very
fond of the cat — for warmth, I think. He'U
go and cuddle her for an hour at a time ; but
n Miss Puss won't lay still to suit his comfort,
he takes her i-ound the neck, and tries to pull her
down, and if then she turn's rusty, he's good
to go behind her, for he's afraid to face her,
and then hell lay hold of the tip of her tall and
give her a nip with his teeth. The cat and
monkey are the best of friends, so long as
Hiss Puas will lie still to be cuddled and suit
his convenience, for he will be Mr. Master,
and have evezything to suit his ways. For
that reason I never would allow either of my
eata to kitten in the cage, because Mr. Monkey
would be sure to want to know all about it, and
then it would be all war; for if he went to
tooeh Miss Puss or her babies, there would be
a flghL Now a monkey ia always fond of any-
thing young, such as a kitten, and puss and
he'd want to nurse the children. A monkey
is kind to everything so long as it ain't afraid
of him, but if so be as it is, then the bullying
and teasing begins. My monkey always likes
to get hold of a kitten, and hold it up in his
arms, just the same as a babv^
*' There's ofteu very good amusement be-
tween the owl and the monkey in this way.
The monkey will go and stare Mr. Owl in the
face, and directly he does so Mr. Owl will begiu
swaying from side to side; and then Mr.
Monkey will pat him in the face or the nose.
After he's bullied the owl till it's in a awful
rage, the owl will take and dive at Mr. Monkey
with his open claws, and perhaps get on bw
back. Then Mr.Monkey will go climbing all over
the cage, cliattering at the uwl, and frighten-
ing him, and making him flutter all about.
My owls can see well enough in the day-time,
for they are used to be in tlie open air, and
they get used to it.
** I compare my monkey to the clown of the
cage, for lie's mischievous, and clever, and
good-natured. He'll never bully any of them
very long after he sees they are in a regular
passion, but leave them and go to some other
bird or beast. One of my pups is my monkey's
best friend, for neither of them are ever tired
of pla}'ing.
"Tlie cats and tJie birds are very good
friends indeed ; they'll perch on her bock, and
I've even seen them come on her head and pick
up the bits of dirt ns you'll generally find in a
cat's head. I've tried a very curious experi-
ment ^ith cats and birds. I've introduced a
strange cat into my ca;j^e, and instantly she
gets into the cage she gets frightened, and
looks round for a moment, and then she'll
make a dart upon almost the flrst thing that
is facing her. If it's the owl, monkey, small
birds, or any thing, she'll fly at it. It's in
general then tliat the monkey is the greatest
enemy to the strange cat of anything in the cage.
He'll go and bite her tail, but he won't face
her. Then the other cats will be all with their
hairs up and their tails swelled up to fly at
the stranger, but then I generally takes her
out, or else there would be a fight. All the
rats will be on the look-out and run away front
the strange cat, and the httie birds fly to the
top of the cage, fluttering and chirriping with
fear.
*' The hawk I had a good deal of difficulty
with to make him live happily with the smaU
birds. When training a hawk, I always put
him in with the large things first, and after
he's accustomed to them, then I introduce
smaller birds. He's always excited when he
first comes amongst tlie smaller buiis. I find
Mr. Monkey is always the guard, as he doesnt
hurt them. When he sees the hawk flut-
tering and driving about after tlie small birds,
Mr. Monkey will go aod pat him, as mudi as
to say, ' You mustn't hurt them,' and also to
take hia attention off After Mr. Hawk has
2iy
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOfi.
been in the cage four, five, or six different
times in tmining, the starlings gets accus-
tomed to him, and will perch alongside of
him ; and it's as common as possible to see
the starlings, when the hawk was feeding, go
and eat off the some raw meat, and actually
perch on his back and pick the bits off his bill
as he is eating them.
** A magpie in a cage has as much as he
can do to look after himself to keep his tail
all right. It's a bird that is very scared, and
here and there and everywhere, always fljing
about the cage. His time is taken up keeping
out of Mr. Monkey's way. It's very rarely
you see Mr. Monkey interfere with him. A
magpie will pitch upon something smaller
than himself, such as pigeons, which is in-
offensive, or starhngs, as is weaker; but he
ne^-er attempts to tackle anything as is likely
to be stronger than himself. He fights shy
of the big animals.
** A good jackdaw, well trained to a happy
family, is the Ufe of the cage next to the
monkey. He's at all the roguishness and
mischief that it is possible for a man to be at.
If he sees a cat or a dog, or anytliing asleep
and quiet, he'll perch on its head, and peck
away to rouse it. He's very fond of pitching
on the top of the cat and turning the fur
over, or pecking at the ears, till the cat turns
round, and then he's off. If there's a rat in
his way, he'll peck at its nose till it turns
round, and then peck at its tail. If Mr. XUt
gets spiteful he'll fly to the perches for it, and
then follow out Jack Daw, as much as to say,
* I had the best of you.' The people are
very fond of tlie jackdaw, too, and they like
putting their fingers to the wires, and Jack'll
peck them. He's very fond of stealing things
and hiding them. He'll take the halfpence
and conceal them. He looks round, as if
seeing whether he was watched, and go off
to some sly comer where there is nothing
near him. if lie can get hold of any of the
others' food, that pleases him better than any-
thing. My monkey and the jackdaw ain't
very good company. When Mr. Jack begins
his fun, it is pcnerally when Mr. Monkey is lying
still, cuddling his best friend, and that's one
pf the httle dogs. If Mr. Monkey is lying
down with his tail out, he'll go and peck him
hard on it, and he'll hollow out * Jackdaw,'
and off he is to the perches. But Mr. Monkey
will be after him, climbing after liim, and he's
sure to catch hold of him at last, and then Mr.
Jack is as good as his master, for he'll hollow
out to attract me, and I have to rattle my cane
along the wires, to tell them to give over.
Then, as sure as ever the monkey was gone,
the jack would begin to crow.
** I had a heron once, and it died ; I had it
about fourteen months. The way as he met
with his death was — ^he was all well in the
cage, and standing about, when he took a
false step, and fell, and lamed himself. I
was obliged to leave him at home, and then he
pined and died. He was the only bird I ever
had, or tlic only creature that ever was in a
happy-family cage, that could keep Mr. Monkey
at bay. Mr. Monkey was afii^d of him, for he
would give such nips Tvith his long bill that
would snip a piece out of Mr. Monkey, and he
soon finds out when he would get the worst of it.
I fed my heron on flesh, though he liked fish
best. It's the most daintiest bird that is in
its eating.
** The cotamundi was an animal as was civil
and quiet with everything in the cage. But
his propensity and habits for anytlung that
was in a , cage was a cat. It was always his
bed-fellow; he'd fight for a cat; he'd l)ully
the monkey for a cat He and the cat were
the best of friends, and they made common
cause against Mr. Monkey. He was very fond
of routing about the cage. He had very good
teeth and rare claws, and a monkey will never
stand against any thing as punishes him.
Anything as is afVaid of lum he'll bully.
** I had an old crow once, who was a great
favourite of mine, and when he died I coukl
almost have cried. To tell you what he could
do is a'most too much for me to say, for it waa
everything he was capable of. He would
never stand to fight; always run away and
hollow. He and the jackdaw was two birds
as always kept apart firom each other: they
was both of a trade, and couldn't agree. He
was very fond of getting on a perch next to
any other bird — an owl, for instance — and then
he'd pretend to be looking at nothing, and
then suddenly peck at the leet of his neigh,
hour on the sly, and then tiy and look inno-
cent After a time the other bird would turn
round on him, and thou he was off, screaming
* Caw ' at the top of his beak, as I may say.
He was a general favourite with everybody.
It's a curious thing, but I never know a crow,
or a jackdaw either, to be hungry, but what
they'd come and ask for food by hollowing
out the same as in their wild state. Mine
was a carrion crow, and eat flesh. At feeding*
time he'd always pick out the biggest pieces
he could, or three or four of them, if he could
lay hold of them in liis beak, and then he'd
be off to a comer and eat what he could and
then hide the remainder, and go and fetch
it out as he felt hungry again. He knew me
perfectly well, and would come and perch on
my shoulder, and peck me over the finger,
and look at me and make his noise. As soon
as he see me going to fetch the food he would*
if he was loose in the court where I lived in,
run to me directly, but not at other times.
He was a knowing fellow. I had him about
one year and nine months. I used to call
him the pantaloon to Mr. Monkey's clown,
and they was always at their pantomime tricks.
Once an old woman came down our court
when he was loose, and he cut after her and
I>ecked at her naked feet, and she was to
frightened she fell down. Then off he went,
* caw, caw,' as pleased as he conhl be. Ht
I
LONDOK LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
ai9
Ahrijf followed the children, picking at their
heels. Nothing delighted him so much as
■II the loguishness and mischief as he could
get into.
•• For finding a happy family in good order,
with 2 monkeys, 3 cats, 2 dogs, 16 rats,
0 staiiings, 2 hawks, jackdaw, 3 owls, magpie,
2 guinea-pigs, one rabbit, will take about
1j. 4i. a- day. I buy leg of beef for the birds,
about lilb., and the dogs have two pen'orth
of proper dogs* meat; and there are apples
and nuts for ihe monkey, about one pen'orth,
and then there's com of different kinds, and
seeds and sopped bread for the rats, and hay
and sand-dust for the birds. It all tells up,
and comes to about la. ^. a-day.
•• There are two happy families in London
town, including my own. I don't know where
the other man stands, for he moves about.
Now I like going to one place, where I gets
known. It isn't a li\'ing for any man now.
1 wouldn't stick to it if I could get
any work to do ; and yet it's an ingenious
exhibition and ought to be patronized. People
ivill come and stand roimd for hours, and
never givw a penny. Even very respectable
people will come up, and as soon as ever I
OiDd the cup to them, they'll be off about
their business. There are some gentlemen
wbo give me regularly a penny or twopence
a-veek. I could mention several professional
•etflTS who do that to me. I make the most
money when the monkey is at his tricks, for
then they want to stop and see him at his
ftis, and I keep asking them for money, and
do it BO often, that at last they are obliged to
give something.
•• My cage has wire-work all round, and
Uinda to pull down when I change my pitch.
There are springs under the cage to save the
jolting over the stones.
" I forgot to UiU you that I've had cats,
whose kittens have been taken from them,
suckle rats which have been put in their
places when they are still blind, and only
eight days old. She'll take to the rats instead
of her kittens. I've not put them in the cage
at this small age, but waited imtil they were
old enough to run about. They'll keep on
sackling at the cat till they get to a tidy size,
till she pots annoyed with them and beats
tiicm off; but she'll caress them at other
times, and allow them to come and lay under
her belly, luitl iirotect them from Mr. Monkey.
Many u time Las a cat been seen suckling
rats in my cjis^u, but then they've been pretty
old rats — of about eight or ten weeks old;
aad a rat will suckle then, and they'll follow
her about and go and he under her belly, just
the same as chickens under a hen — just the
same.
** At night I don't let my collection sleep to-
gether in the cage. It's four years since I first
took to separating of them, for this reason : I
had the cleverest monkey in London ; there
never was a better. I used to wheel the cage
into the back-yard, and there let them sleep.
One night somebody was so kind as to come
and steal my monkey away. I found out my
loss the same night. I had only gone into the
house to fetch food, and when I came back
Mr. Monkey was gone. He didn't run away,
for he was too fond of the cage, and wouldn't
leave it. I've often put him outside, and let
him loose upon Tower-hill, and to run about
gardens, and he'd come back again when I
called him. I had only to turn his favourite
dog out, and as soon as he see'd the dog he'd
be on to his back and have a nice ride back to
the cage and inside in a moment. Since that
loss Pve always carried the collection into the
house, and let them sleep in the same room
where I've slept in. They all know their
beds now, and will go to them of their own
accord, both the cats, the dogs, and the
monkeys. I've a rat- box, too, and at night
when I'm going home I just open the door of
the cage and that of the rat-box, and the rats
run into their sleeping-place as quick as pos-
sible, and come out again in the morning of
their own accord.
" My family are fed on the best : they have
as good as any nobleman's favourite dog.
They've often had a deal more, and better,
than their master.
•* I don't know why happy families don't
pay, for they all look at the cage, and seem as
pleased as ever ; but there's poverty or some-
thing in the way, for they don't seem to have
any money. When I left off last — only a
month ago — I wasn't taking Qd. a-day. It
didn't pay for feeding my little stock. I went
to firework-making. They are always busy
with firework-making, ready for the 5th of
November. I'm sick and tired of the other
affair, and would do anything to get from it;
but people are afraid to employ mo, for they
seem to fancy that after being in the streets
we are no use for anything.
I'm fond of my little stock, and always
was from a child of dumb animals. I'd a deal
sooner that anybody hurt me than any of my
favourites.'*
Exhibitor of Bihds and Mice.
A STOiTT, acute-looking man, whom I found
in a decently-furnished room with his wife,
gave me an account of this kind of street-cxlii-
bition : —
" I perform," said he, " with birds and mice,
in the open air, if needful. I was brought up
to juggling by my family and friends, but colds
and heats brought on rheumatism, and I left
jugghng for another branch of the profession ;
but I juggle a httle still. My birds are nearly
all canaries— a score of them sometimes,
sometimes less. I have names for them all.
I have Mr. and Mrs. Caudle, dressed quite in
character: they quarrel at times, and that's
self taught with them. Mrs. Caudle is not
noisy, and is quite amusing. They ride out in
220
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
a chariot drawn by another bird, a goldfinch
mole. I give him any name that comes into
my head. The goldfinch harnesses himself
to a little wire harness. Mr. and Mrs. Caudle
and the mnle is vexy much admired by people
of taste. Then I have Marshal Ney in full
nniform, and he fires a cannon, to keep np tiDe
character. I can*t say that he's bolder than
others. I have a little canary called the
Trumpeter, who jimips on to a trumpet when
1 sound it, and remains there until I've done
souncUng. Another canary goes up a poll, as
if climbing for a leg of mutton, or any prize at
the top, as they do at fairs, and wlien he gets
to the top he answers me. He climbs fair,
toe and heel— no props to help him along.
These are the principal birds, and they all play
by the word of command, and with the greatest
satisfaction and ease to themselves. I use two
things to train them— •kindness and patience,
and neither of these two things must be stinted.
The grand difficulty is to get them to perform
in the open air without filing away, when
they^re no tie upon tliem, as one may say.
I lost one by its taking flight at Ramsgate, and
another at Margate. They don*t and cant do
anything to teach one another; not in the
least; every bird is on its own account: seeing
another bird do a trick is no good whatever.
I teach them all myself, beginning with
them from the nest I breed most of them
myself. To teach them to sing at the
word of command is veiy difficult. I whistle
to the bird to make it sing, and then when
it sings I feed, and pet, and fondle it,
until it gets to sing without my whistling-—
understandingmy motions. Harshness wouldn't
educate any bird whatsoever. I pursue the
same system all through. The bird used to
jump to be fed on the trumpet, and got used
to the sound. To train Marshal Ney to fire his
cannon, I put the cannon first like a perch for
the bird to fly to for his food ; it's fired by stuff
attached to the touchhole that explodes when
touched. The bird's generaUy friightened be-
fore he gets used to gunpowder, and flutters
into the body of the cage, but after a few times
he don't mind it. I train mice, too, and my
mice fetch and carry, like dogs ; and three A
the little things dance the ti^t-rope on their
hind legs, with balance-poles in their mouths.
They are hard to train, but I have a secrat
way, found out by myseli^ to educate them
properly. They require great care, and aso,
if anytlung, tenderer than the birds. I have
no particular names for the mice. They an
all fancy mice, white or coloured. I've known
four or five in my way in London. Ifft aQ •
lottery what I got.. For the open-air per-
formonoe, the West^end may be the best, but
there's little difference. I have been ill seven
months, and am just stttcting again. Then I
can't work in the air in bad wieather. I call
21s. a very good week's work; and to get that^
every day must be fine — lOi. 6<f. is neater tfie
mark as an average for the year. An order to
pla^ at a private house may be extra; iSkef
give me wiiat they please. My birds * oome
with a whistle, and come witii a call, and come
with a good win, or they wont do at aH'— fbr
me. The police don't meddle with me-«-oe
nothing to notice. A good many of my birds
and mice die before they reach any perfSeetion—
anotJher expense and loss of time in my bttn-
ness.- Town or country is pretty madk the
some to me, take it altogether. The waterim^.
places aro the best in the connttry, neriiaps, f&
itrs there people go for pleasure. I dont ksoir
any »«ir place ; if I did Td stick to iC ImSm
and children are my best friends generaflj."
The performance of the birds and ndetf
above described is very clever. " Mr. and
Mrs. Caudle" are dressed in red and Mas
cloaks, trimmed with silver laee and span^es;
while Mr. Caudle, with an utter disr^od of
propriety, is adorned with a cocked hat.
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
2'2l
SKILLED AND UNSKILLED LABOUR.
Ths Gabinfit-xnakerB, socially as \rcll as com-
menklly consideied, consiati like all other
oyeintiy68| of two distinct clasBea, that is to
sitj, of aodfity azid non-Eociety men, or, in the
laagooga oC polidcaL economy, of thobo whose
wi^a* 9Bb regnlated by ciutom ami those
vhoaa aannngs ace deteonined by competition.
ThafoDneroUBSZUiinbers between 000 and 700
of the tBMU, and the latter between 4000 and
9000. Am. a generaL role I may remark, that I
fiad the Boaie^men of every trade oomprise
about oiie4en& of the wlide. Hence it folr
hniBr that if the non-aociety men are neither
10 skilldl nor so well-eondacted oa tho others,
at least they are qoita as important a body,
fmoL tha fiwt. that they constitute the main
poKtioniaf thaitrado. The transition flrom the
oae daaa to tha other iu, however, in most
OBSS.. oC a T9Ki disheartening character. The
diffimwia bciiiveen the tailor at the west end,
vorkiiig im batter shops at the better prices,
nd the poor wretch starving at stan-ation
Vigaa ikir the aweatars and slop-shops at the
<Mt anti^haa already been pointed out. The
Mme auriud contrast was also shown to exist
between the society and non-society boot and
shoemakers. The carpenters and joiners told
the same story. There were found society men
renting hooses of their own — some paj-ing as
much as 701. a-yeor- — and the non-society men
fvCTWorited and underpaid, so that a few weeks'
■ckness reduced them to absolute pauperism,
yor. I regret to say, can any other tale be told
of the eidnnet-makors ; except it be, that the
oompetidTe man in this trade are even in a
WQxse position than any other. I have already
portrayed to the reader the difference be-
tween the homes of the two classes — the com-
f(jn and welLfumished abodes of the one, and
the squalor and bare walls of the other; But
those who wish to be impressed with the
social advantages of a faijd>'-paid class of me-
ifaanics shoold attend a meetints^ of the Wood-
carvers' Society. On. the first iloor of a small
private hoose in Tottenham -street, Tottenhanu
eourt-road^ ja» so to speaks the museiun of the
working-men belonging to this branch of the
cabinetanakera* The waUs of the back-room
•re hong sound with pbistcr casts of some of
the choicest specimens of the arts, and in the
front room the table is strewn with volumes of
valuable panta and drawings in connexion
with the craft. Round this table are ranged
the membeza of the society — some forty or
fifty were there on the night of my attendance
—discussing the afiairs of the trade* Among
the collection of books may be found, " The
^Vrchitectural Ornaments and Decorations of
Cottinghom," " The Gothic Ornaments " of
Puii^D, Tatham's "Greek Belies," Hophael'B
••Pilaster Ornaments of the Vatican," Le
Pautre's ** Designs," and Baptiste's" Collection
of Flowers," large size ; while among the oastB
are articles of the same choice description.
The objects of this society are, in the words of
the preface to the printed catalogue, " to enable
wood>carvers to co-operate fortlie advanoemeofe
of their art, and by forming a collection ol
books, prints, and drawings, to afford theiife
facilities for self-improvement; also.bythedifr
f^on of information among its members, to
assist them in the exercise of their art, as well
as to enable tliem to obtain employment." The.
society doL*s not interfere in the regulation of
wages in any other way than, by the diffusion
of information among its members, to assistr
them in the exercise of their art, as well as ta
enable them to obtain emplo>'ment; so thai
both employers and employed may, by be-
coming members, promote their own and each
other's interests. The collection is now much
enlarged, and with the additions that have
been made to it, offers aid to the membera
which in many cases is invaluable. A3 a
means of facilitating the use of this collection*
the opportunities of borrowing &om it have
been made as general as possible. The meet-
ings of the sooielgr are held at. a place where
attendance is unacoompaniedby expanse ; and
they are, therefore, says the poeface, ^ it9% tmsa
all objection on account of indueements to ex-
ceed the time required for business." All
this appears to be in the best possible taste,
and the attention of the society being still di-
rected to its improvement, assuredly gives the
members, as they sey, **• good reason to hope
thai: it will become one of which the wood*
carver may be proudt as affording valuable as-
abtanee, both m the design and execution of
any style of woodrcarving." In the whole
course of my investigations I have never ex-
perienced more gratification thaa I did on the
evoiing of my visit to this society. The
membera all gave evidence, both in manner
and appearance, of the refining chasacter of
their crafl : and it was indeed a hearty relief
from the scenes of squalor, misery, dirt, vice,
ignorance, and discontent, with wldch these
inquiries too frequently bring one into con-
nexion, to find one's self surrounded with an
atmosidiere of beauty, refinement, comfort, in-
telligenoe, and ease.
922
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
The public, generally, are deplorably mis-
informed as to the character and purpose of
trade societies. The common impression is
that they are combinadons of working-men,
instituted and maintained solely with the view
of exacting an exorbitant rate of wages from
their employers, and that they are necessarily
eonnected with strikes, and with sundiy other
savage and silly means of attaining this object
It is my duty, however, to make known that
'the rate of wages which such societies are in-
stituted to uphold has, with but few exceptions,
been agreed upon at a conference of both
atasters and men, and that in almost every
case I find the members as strongly opposed
to stzikee, as a means of upholding them, as
the public themselves. But at all events the
maintenance of the standard rate of wages is
not the sole otgect of such societies— the ma-
jority of them being organised as much for
the support of the sick and aged as for the
regulation of the price of labour ; and even in
those societies whose efforts are confined to
the latter purpose alone, a considerable sum is
devoted annually for the subsistence of their
members when out of work. The general
eabinet-makers, I have already shown, have
contributed towards this object as much as
1000/. per annum for many years past. It is
not generally known how laraely the community
is indebted to the trade and friendly societies
^ the working classes dispersed throughout
the kingdom, or how much expense the public
is saved by such means in the matter of poor-
rates alone.
According to the last Government returns
there are at present in England, Scotland, and
Ireland, upwards of 83,000 such societies,
14,000 of which are enrolled and 8000 nn-
enrolled — the remaining 11,000 being secret
societies, such as the Odd Fellows, Foresters,
Druids, Old Friends, and Bechabites. The
number of members belonging to these 83,000
societies is more than three millions. The
^ross annual income of the entiiss associations
18 4,980,000/. and their accumulated capital
1 1,860,000/. The working people of this coun-
try, and I believe of this country alone, con-
tribute therefore to the support of their own
poor nearly five millions of money every year,
which is some thousands of pounds more than
rras dispensed in parochial relief throughout
England and Wales in 1848. Hence it may
be truly said, that the benefits conferred by
the trade and friendly societies of the working
classes are not limited to the individuals re-
ceiving them, but are participated in by every
ratepayer in the kingdom, for were there no
such institutions the poor-rates must neces-
sarily be doubled.
I have been thus explicit on the subject of
trade societies in general, because I know
there exists in the public mind a strong pre-
judice against such institutions, and because
it is the fact of belonging to some such society
which invariably distinguishes the better class
of workmen from the worse. The competitive
men, or cheap workers, seldom or never are
members of any association, either enrolled or
unenrolled. The consequence is, that when
out of work, or disabled from sickness or old
age, they are left to the parish to support. It
is the slop-workers of the difierent trades—
the cheap men or non-society hands — who
constitute the great mass of paupers in this
country-. And here lies the main social dis-
tinction between the workmen who belong to
societies and those who do not — the one
maintain their own poor, the others are left to
the mercy of the parish. The wages of the
competitive men are cut down to a bare sub-
sistence, so that, being unable to save anything
from 'their earnings, a few days' incapacity
from labour drives them to the workhoase for
relief. In the matter of machinery, not only
is the cost of working the engine, but the wear
and tear of the machine, considered as a neces-
sary part of the expense of production. With
the human machine, however, it is diffiarent,
slop-wages beinp^ sufficient to defray only the
cost of keeping it at work, but not to eompen*
sate for the wear and tear of it. Under the
allowance system of the old poor-law, wages,
it is well known, were reduced far below sub-
sistence-point, and the workmen were left to
seek pansh relief for the remainder ; and so 'm
the slop part of every trade, the iiiideq>aid
workmen when sick or aged are handed over
to the state to support
As an instance of the truth of the above re-
marks I subjoin the following statement, which
has been frirnished to me by the GhainnakerB*
Society concerning their outgoings >—
** Average number of members 110*
Paid to unemployed members
from 1841 to 18(K) • . Jei256 10 a
Do. for insurance of tools . 211 10 ft
Do. do. loss of time by fire . 19 2 ^
Do. do. funerals of members • 120 15 O
Do. do. collections for sick • 60 4 O
'* The objects which the London Chairmakens
have in view by associating in a trade society,'*
says the written statement frx)m which th3
above account is extracted, "is to insure, as
near as possible, one uniform price for th9
work they execute, so that the employer shall
have a guarantee in making his calculations
that he will not be charged more or less thazm
his neighbours, who employ the same class o^
men : to assist their members in obtaining em-^
ployment, and a just remuneration for th^
work they perform : to insure their tools agains ^
fire: to provide for their funerals in the even.^
of death : and to relieve their members when-
unemployed or in sickness — the latter beiot^
efiected by paying persons to collect voluntary
subscriptions for invalid members, such siiL»'
smptions producing on an average 9/. in eaclx
case. The members have, moreover, othex"
modes of assisting each other when in diflS'
culties.**
STREET CONJUEEE PEEFOEMING.
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
VZ'6
I may as w&ll here subjoin the statement I
haTe reeeivied from this society concerning the
circnmstances affecting their business.
" Our trade," say they, in a written commu-
nieation to me, " has suffered very materially
from a change which took place about 30
years ago in the system of work. We were at
that time chiefly employed by what we term
• trade-working masters/ who supplied the up-
holsterers with the frames of chairs and sofks ;
bnt since then we have obtained our work di-
rectly firom the sellers. At tirst the change
was rather beneficial than otherwise. The
employer and his salesman, however, have
now, in the greater number of instances, no
knowledge of the manufacturing part of the
business, and this is very detrimental to our
interest, owing to their being unacquainted
with the value of the labour part' of the articles
we midEe. Moreover, the salesman sends all
the orders he can out of doors to be made by
the middlemen, though the customer is led to
believe that the work is executed on the
premises, whereas only a portion of it is made
at home, and that chiefly the odd and out-of-
the-way work, because the sending of such
work out of doors would not answer the end of
cheapness. The middleman, who executes tho
work away from the premises, subdivides the
labour to such an extent that he is enabled to
get the articles made much cheaper, as well as
to employ both unskilful workmen and appren
tices.
** Placed in the position where the employer
gets the credit of paying us the legitimate
price {qx onr labour, it would appear that we
hare no cause of complaint ; but, owing to the
system of things before stated, as well as to
the number of linendrapers, carpet-makers,
and others, who have recently entered the
trade without having any practical knowledge
of the business, together with the casualty of
our enrployment, our social position has become
scarcefy any better, or so good, as that of the
unskilful or the dissipated workman, while,
from the many demands of our fellow-opera-
tires upon us, in the shape of pecuniary assist-
ance, we have a severe struggle to maintain
anything like a respectable footing in the com-
munity. The principal source of regret with
OS isr that the public have no knowledge of the
quality of the articles tliey buy. Tho sellers,
too, firom their want of practical acquaintance
vith the manufacturing port of the buMuess,
have likewise an injurious effect upon our
interests, instead of seconding our efforts to
kaep \xf a creditable position is society.
'* The subjoined is the amount of the capital
of our society at the present time-: —
"Property in thsEonda . .j^300
Out at me ..... 175
Other anraikble property, in the > ^qq
shape of priee^books, «tc j ^___
;e075."
Suehy then, is the atate of the lociety men
belonging to the cabinet-makers' trade. These,
as I before said^ constitute that portion of tho
workmen whose wages are regulated by custom,
and it now only remains for me to set forth
the state of those whose earnings are deter-
mined by competition. Here we shall find
that the wEiges a flew years since were fh)m
three to four himdred per cent better than
they are at present, 209. having formerly been
tho price paid for making that for which the
operatives now receive only 5*., and this not-
>rithstanding that the number of hands in the
London trade from 1831 to 1841 declined 33
per cent relatively to the rest of the popu-
lation. Nor can it be said that this extra-
ordinary depreciation in the value of the
cabinet-makers' labour has arisen from any
proportionate decrease in the quantity of work
to bo done. The number of houses built in
the metropolis has of late been considerably
on the increase. Since 1830 there have been
200 miles of new streets formed in London,
no less than 6403 new dwellings having beoi
erected annually since that time : and as it is
but fair to assume tliat the m^ority of theso
new houses must have required new frumiture,
it is clear that it is impossible to account for
the decline in the wages of the trade in
question upon tho assumption of an equal
decline in tlie quantity of work. How, then,
are we to explain the fact that, while tho hands
have decreased 33 per cent, and work in-
creased at a.considerable rate, wages a few years
ago were 300 per cent better than they are aC
present ? The solution of the problem will be
found in the extraordinary increase that has
taken place within tho last 20 years of what
are called ** garret-masters" in the cabinet
trade. These garret-masters are a class of
small ♦* tnwle-working masters," supplying both
capital and labour. They are in manufacture
what the peasant-proprietors are in agrictdture,
their own employers and their own workmen.
There is, however, this one marked distinctian
between the two classes^— the garret-master
cannot, liko tlie peasant-proprietor, eat what
he produces: the consequence is, that he ia
obliged to convert each article into food imme-
diately he manufactures it, no matter what
tho state of the market nay be. The capital
of the garret-master being generally sufficient
to find him in the materiala for the manufac-
ture of oidy one article at a time, and his
savings being barely enough for his subsistence
while he is engaged in putting those materials
together, he is compelled the moment the
work is completed to part with it for whatever
he can get. He cannot afford to keep it even
a day, for to do so is generally to remain a
day unfed. Hence, if the maricet be at iJl
slack, he ha» to fovee a sale by ofiBering hia
goods at the lowest possible price. What
wonder, then, that the necessities of such a
dasa of indtvidnals should have created a spe-
cial race of employmrs, known by the significant
name of *« alMgbter-house men?"— or that
fUi
LONDON LABOUB AND THE LONDON POOS.
these, being aware of the inability of the garret-
masters to hold out against any offer, no
matter how slight a remuneration it affords
for their labour, should continually lower and
lower their prices until the entire body of the
competitive portion of the cabinet trade is
sunk in utter destitution and misery ? More-
CTer, it is well known how strong is the stimu-
lus among peasant-proprietors, or indeed any
class working for themselves, to extra produc*
tion. So it is, indeed, with the garret-masters ;
their industry is indeed almost incessant, and
hence a greater quantity of work is turned
out by them, and continually forced into the
market, than there would otherwise be. What
though there be a brisk and a slack season in
the cabinet-makers' trade, as in the majority
of others? Slack or brisk, the garret-master
must produce the same excessiye quantity of
ffoods. In the hope of extricating himself
from his overwhelnung poverty, he toils on,
groducing more and more ; and yet the more
e produces the more hopeless does his posi-
tion become, for the greater the stock that he
thrusts into the market the lower does the
price of his labour fall, until at last he and his^
own family work for less than he himself
eould earn, a few years back, by his own un-
aided labour.
Another cause of the necessity of 'the garret-
master to part with his goods as soon as made
is the large size of the articles he manu-
&ctures, and the consequent cost of conveying
them from slaughter-house to slaughter-house
till a purchaser be found. For this purpose a
van is frequently hired ; and the consequence
is, that he cannot hold out against the slangh-
terer's offer, even for an hour, without in-
creasing the expense of carriage, and so vir-
tually decreasing his gains. This is ao well
known at the slaughter-houses, that it a man,
after seeking in vain for a fiedr remuneration
for his work, is goaded by his necessities to
call at a shop a second time to accept a price
which he had previously refused, he seldom
obtains what was first offered him. Some-
times when he has been ground down to the
lowest pr)ssible sum, he is paid late on a Satur-
day night with a cheque, and forced to give the
firm a liberal discount for cashing it
For a more detailed account, however, of
the iniquities practised upon this class of ope-
ratives, I refer the reader to the sUtemoits
given below. It will be there seen that all the
modes by which work can be produced cheap
are in fhll operation. The labour of appren-
tices and children is the prevailing means of
production. I heard of one small trade-work-
ing master who had as many as eleven appren-
tices at work for him ; and wherever the ope-
rative is blessed with a family they aJl work,
even from 6 years old. The employment of
any undue number of apprentices also tends
to increase the very excess of hands from which
the trade is suffering ; and thus it is, that the
lower wages becMome, the lower still they ara
reduced. There are very few— some told me
there were none, but there are a few who work
as journeymen for little masters;^ but these
men become little masters in their turn, or
they must starve in idleness, for their em-
ployment is precarious. These men have no
time for social interoommunicalion : the
struggle to live absorbs all their energies, and
confines all their aspirations to that one en-
deavour. Their labour is devoted, with the
rarest exceptions, to the ** slaughter-houses,
linendrapers, 'polsterers, or warehouses.** By
all these names I heard the shopkeepers who
deal in frimiture of all kinds, as well as drapeiy
goods, designated.
These men work in their own rooms, in
Spitalfields and Bethnal-green ; and some-
times two or three men in different branches
occupy one apartment, and work together
there. They are a sober class of men, but
seem so perfectly subdued by circomstanoes,
that they cannot or do not struggle against the
system which several of them told me they
Imew was undoing them.
^ The subdivisions of this trade I need not
give, they are as numerous as the articles of
Uie cabinet-maker's calling.
I have mentioned that the black houses, or
linendrapers at the west end of London, were
prindpaUy supplied from the east end. In
the neighbourhood of Tottenham-coart-road
and Oiford-street, for instance, moat of my
readers will have had their attention attracted
by the dust-coloured appearance of some poor
worker in wood eanying along his skeleton of
an easy chair, or a sofa, or a couch, to dispose
of in some shop. Often, too, a carter has to
''be employed for the same purpose, at the rate
of Is. 6i. an hour ; and thus two hours will
exhaust the very Aillest value of a long day's
labour, f^rom a fiimiture-carter of thia de-
scription I received some most shocking de-
tails of having to "busk** it, as this taking
about goods for sale is called by those in the
trade.
Fh)m a pale, feeble-looking man whom I
met on a Saturday evening at the west end,
carrying a mahogany chiffonier, I had the fol-
lowing statement: —
**I have dragged this chifibnier with me,**
he said, **from Spitalfields, and have been
told to call again in two hours (it was then
half-past 7). I am too tired to drag it to
another linendraper's, and indeed I shouldn't
have so good a chance there ; for if we go late,
the manager considers we've been at other
places, and hell say, < Tou needn't bring me
what others have refused.' I was brought up
as a general hand at , but was never in
society, which is a great disadvantage. I feel
that now. I used to make my 25s. or 2Ss.
a-week six or seven years back ; but then I fell
out of employ, and worked at chair-making
for a slaughter-house, and so got into the
system, and now I can't get out of it. I have
no time to look about me, as, if I'm idle, I
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
225
can^t get bread for my family. I have a wife
and two chUdren. lliey're too young to do
anvthing; bnt I can*t a&rd to send t^bem to
school, except every now and then Id, or 2d.
a-week, and so they may learn to read, per-
haps. The anxiety I sofTer is not to be told.
Tre nothing left to pawn now ; and if I don't
sell this cMffonier I most take it back, and
must go back to a honse bare of eveiything,
except, perhaps, d«. or 2s. ^d, my wife may
have earned by mining her health for a tailor's
sweater ; and Is. 6i. of that most go for rent
I ought to have 2^. for this chiffonier, for it's
superior mahogany to the nm of snch things ;
bat I ask only d5s., and perhaps may be bid
^S«., and get dOs. ; and it may be sold, perhaps,
It the linendraper for 8/. 3s. or 3/. 10s. Of
coarse weYe obtiged to work in the slightest
manner possible ; but, good or bad, there's the
same fanlt found with the article. I have
already lost 8^ hoars; and there's my wife
anxionsly looUng for my retam to boy bread
and a bit of beast's head for to-morrow. It's
hard to go without a bit o' meat on Sundays ;
and, indeed, I must sell at whatever price — it
dun't matter, and that the linendraper depends
I now subjoin a statement of a garret-master
—a maker of loo tables — ^who was endeavour-
ing to make a living by a number of ap-
prentices:—
"I'm now 41," he said, «*and for the last
ten or twelve years have been working for a
linendraper who keeps a slaughter-house.
Before that I was in a good shop, Mr. D 's,
and was a general hand, as we were in the fair
trade. I have often made my 50s. a-week on
good woric of any kind : now, with three ap-
prentices to help me, I make only 25s. Work
grew slack ; and rather than be doing nothing,
as I'd saved a little money, I made loo tables,
and sold them to a linendraper, a dozen..years
back or so, and so somehow I got into the
trade. For tables that, eighteen years ago, I
had in a good shop 30s. for making, now 5s. is
paid ; but that's only in a slaughterer's own
lactory, when he has one. I've been told often
enough by a linendraper, ' Make an inferior
article, so as it's cheap : if it comes to pieces
in a month, what's that to you or me?' Now,
a 4-foot loo is an average ; and if for profit
and labour — and it's near two days* work — I
pnt on 7s., I'm bid 5s. less. I've been bid less
than the stuff, and have on occasions been
forced to take it That was four years ago ;
and I then found I couldn't possibly live by
m}- own work, and I had a wife and four chil-
dnen to keep ; so I got some apprentices. I
have now three, and two of them are stiff
fellows of 18, and can do a deal of work. For
a 4-foot loo table I have only I/., though
the materials cost finom lis. to 13s., and it's
about two days* work. There's not a doubt of
it that the linendrapers have brought bad
work into the market, and have swamped the
good. For work that, ten or twelve years ago,
I had 3/. 5s. to 3/. 10s. fi*om them, I have now
30s. Of course, it's inferior in quality in pro-
portion, but it doesnt pay me half as well. I
know that men like me are cutting one another's
throats by competition. Fourteen years ago
we ought to have made a stand against this
system ; but, then, we must live."
A pale young man, working in a room with
two others, but in different branches, gave me
the following account: —
**I have been two years making looking-
glass fhunes. Before that I was in the general
cabinet line, but took to this when I was out
of work. I make frames only; the slaughter-
houses put in the glasses themselves. If I
had other work I couldn't afford to lose time
going from one to another that I wasn't so
quick at. I make all sizes of frames, from
nine-sevens to twenty-four-eighteens (nine
inches by seven, and twenty-four inches by
eighteen). Nine-sevens are most in demand ;
and the slaughter-houses give 10s. ^d. a-dozen
for them. Two years back they gave 15s.
All sizes has fallen 3s. to 4s. a-dozen. I find
all the material. It's mahogany veneered
over deal. There's only five or six slaughter-
houses in my way ; but I serve the Italians or
Jews, and they serve the slaughter-houses.
There's no foreigners employed as I'm em-
ployed. It's not foreign competition as harms
us— it's home. I almost ask more than I
mean to take, for I'm always bid less than a
fair price, and so we haggle on to a bargain.
The best weeks I have had I cleared 25s. ; but
in slack times, when I can hardly sell at all,
only 12s. Carrying the goods for sale is such
a loss of time. Tlungs are very bad now ; but
I must go on making, and get a customer when
trade is brisker if I can. Glass has rose Is.
a-foot, and that's made a slack in the trade,
for my trade depends greatly on the glass
trade. I know of no women employed in my
trade, and no apprentices. We are all little
masters."
I shall now proceed to the other branch of
the trade. The remarks I have made con-
cerning the wretched social condition and
earnings of fancy cabinet-makers who are in
society, apply even more strongly to the non-
society men. The society men are to be
found chiefly in Clerkenwell ; the non-society
men in Spitalfields and Bethnal Green. With
these unfortunate workmen there is yet a
lower deep. The underpaid men of Clerken-
well work generally to order, if the payment
be never so inadequate. But the still more
underpaid men of Spitalfields work almost
universally on speculation. The Spitalfields
cabinet-maker finds his own material, which
he usually purchases of the great cabinet-
makers or the pianoforte-makers, being the
veneers which are the refuse of their work.
The supply of the east-end warehousemen is
derived fhmi Uttle masters— men who work at
their own abodes, and have the assistance of
their wives and children. It is very rarely
%
226
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
that thej, or their equally nnderpaid fellovs
in the geuend cabinet trade, employ an active
journeyman. Almost every man in the trade
worka on his own account, finds his own
xnateiial, and goes **on the busk to the
slaughter-hooses'* ibr the chance of a ooa-
tomer.
I found the Cuioj Mfaiaet-makezs eflttainlj
an uninformed chiss, but patient, temperate,
and reaigned. Some few could neither vead
nor wzite, and their fMniliee were growinff np
ea uninformed as the paranta. The hewlnng
ibxn door to door of workboxea made by some
of the men themselTes, their wives assisting
them with hawking, was ikr oommoner than it
is now; but it is atill practised to a amall
extent
I called on an old couple to whom I was
referred, as to one of the lew parties employed
in working for the men who supplied the
warehouses. The man's appearance was gaunt
and wretched. He had been long unshorn ;
and his light blue eyes had that dull, half-
glased look, which is common to the old when
apiiit-broken and half-fod. His rooim, a small
garret in Spitalfields, for which he paid 1«. M.
a-week, was bare of furniture, except his work-
bench and two chairs, which were occupied by
his wife, who was at work lining the boxes her
husband was making. A blanket rolled op
was the poor couple's bed. The wifo was ten
years younger than her husband. She was
vexy poorly dad in an old rusty black gown,
tattered here and there; hot she did not look
Tery feeble.
«* I am 63," the man aaid, and he looked 80,
** and was apprenticed in my youth to the fancy
cabinet trade. I could maJce U, 4a. a-week at
it by working long hours when I was out of my
time, forty-two years back. I have worked
chiefly on workboxes. I didn't save money —
1 was foolish ; but it was a hard-living and a
hard-drinking time. I'm sorry for it now.
Thirty years ago things weren't quite so good,
but BtiU vezy good ; and so they were twenty
years back. But since the slaughter-houses
came in, men like ma has been starving.
"Why here, sir, for a rosewood workbox like
this, which I shall get 6d. for making, I used
to give A brother oif mine (U. 6d. for making
twenty years ago. I've been paid 22<. 6d.
years ago for what I now get 2<. td. for. The
man who employs me now works for a slaugh-
ter-house ; and he must grind me down, or he
cooldnt serve a slaughter-house che^ enough.
He finds materials, and I find tods and 0ue ;
end I have 6<. a-dozen for making these boxes,
and I can only make a dozen A-week, and the
glue and other odds and ends for them costs
me 6i^. a-dozen. That^ with 8^. or l(k{. A-weok,
or !«., that vay wife may make, as she helps
me in lining,is all we have to live on. We live
entirely on tea and bread and butter, when we
can get butter; never any change — tea, And
nothing else aU day ; never a bit of meat on a
Sunday. As for beer, I haven't spent it. on it
these last fbur years. When Tm not nt work
for a little master, I get stuff of one, and make
a few boxes on my own account, and cany
them out to selL I have often to go three or
four miles with them; for there's a house near
Tottenham-court-road that will take afov ftuma.
me, generally out of charity. When I'm |Mt
work, or oant meet with any, thece^ nnthmg
but the workhouse for me."
The decUne which has iaken plaee wiiU&
the last twenty years in the wages of llu»
operative cahioet- makers of IioiidoQ is ao
ennrmoua, andL moreover, it seems 90 iippaaed '
to the principles of political eoanoay, that it
becomes of the highest importance in an in-
quiry like the present to trace out the dniim-
atances to which this special depredation is
to be attributed. It has been before ahown
that the numbor of hands bdonging to the
London cabinet trade decreased between 1881
and liUl 38 per cent in comparison with the
rest of the metropolitan population ; and that,
notwithstanding this falling ot^ the woik-
man's wages in 1831 were at least 400 per
oent better than they are at present; 20$,
having formerly been pdd for the making
of articles for which now only hi, are given.
To impress this fact, however, more atrongly
upon the reader's mind, I will dte here a
few of many instances of depreciation that
have come to my knowledge. ** Twenty years
ago," said a workman in the fancy cabinet
lino, "I had Qd, an inch for the making of
20-inch desks of solid mahogany ; that*B lOif.
for the entire articlo : now I get 2s. 8A for
the same thing. Smaller desks used to ave-
rage us 6<. each for wages : now they 4on*t
bring us more than Is. Ladies' 12-inch woik-
boxes twenty years ago were 8«. fid. and is.
a-piece making; now they are 5<<. for the
commoner sort and Id, for those with better
work." ^ I don't understand per cents,** said
another workman, ** but this I do know, the
prices that I get l^ve within this twenty years
fallen firom 4t. to fid., and in some cases to
Here, then, we find that wages in the eom-
petitive portion of the cshinet trade— that is
among the non-sodety hands— (the wagea of
the society men I have before explained are
regulated, or rather fixed by custom)-* were
twenty years ago 400 per oent better in some
cases, and in others no less than 900 per eent
higher than they are at present, wad this
while the nnmbeir of workmen has decreased
as much as one-third relativdy to the rest of
the population. How, then, is this cuUtacff^
dinary diminution in the price of labour to be
accounted for? Certainly not on the nftUBll
assumption that the quantity of woik hBB de-
clined in a still greater proportion than the
number of hands to do it, for it has also been
proved that the number of new housea built
annually in the metropolis, and therefore the
quantity of new fiuniture required, has of late
years increased very considerably.
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
227
I& the eabmet tnde, then, we find a colloc-
ticm of (dmunstances atTarionce with that law
ef topDlj and demand bj- which many suppose
tfail the imte of wages is invariably detor-
aaniad. Ifages, it is said, depend upon the
*. and sQjrply of labour ; and it is com-
mmed that they cannot be affected by
J che. That th^ are, however, sab-
ieet to other jtiffneneei, tiie hxstoiy of the ca-
UiHt tiade for the bat twenty years is a most
comiiMuig ynei, for then we find, that idiile
tht qcaiiiitj ef weA, or in other words, the
^■■■id for lAovr, has increased, and the snp-
7^ Aeereaaed, wages, instead of xiaing, have
flBffHred % heiavf dedine. By ndiat means,
liMBylt thsiiediKtioii in the price of labonr to
be WfjilMiiedt What other arenmstance is
tiiere afiheting the remmemtion for woxk, of
'Wfaidi eeooomists ha^e xtsually omitted to take
engnifwiee? The snswer is, that wages de-
peod as much on the distribntion of labomr as
«B liie demand and supply of it. Assuming
m eerton quantity of titiric to be done, the.
amomt of remunention coming to each of
Che woifanen engaged most, of course, be re-
vidalad, not only by the nrnnber of hands, but
vy the proportion of labour done by them re-
ipectivejiy; that is to say, if there be work
emsgh to employ the i^ole of the operatives
for asty hears a-week, and if two-thiztb of the
lunda aie aopplied nith sufficient to occupy
them niiiety hours in the same space of time,
then ane4hiid of the trade most be thrown
fcDj ont of employmettt : thTis proving that
there may be surplus Mour wx&ont any in-
gcaee o€ the population. It may, therefore,
be «Bidy asoerted, that any system of labour
whiA tends to make the members of a craft
prodnee a greater quantity of work than usual,
tends at the aame time to over-populate the
trade as oertainly as an increase of workmen.
This ktw tomj be summed up briefly in the ex-
pressifln that over-work makes under-x>ay.
Henee the next point in the inqniiy is as to
the wesaH by fihich the productiveness of ope-
raliveB is eapable of bemg extended. There
an iDBqy nodes of effecting this. Rome of
theee hMe been long known to students of
polhioal eooaomy, while others have boon
made pvUic for tiie first time in these letters.
Uader the fimner class are included the divi-
eion and eo^cfperation of labour, as well as the
"^krge syatem of production;" and to the
latter belonge ** the strapping system,** by which
men are nude to get throu|^ four times as
nraeh work as tisual, and which I have before
deeeribed. But the most effectual means of
increaalDg the prodoetiveBess of labourers is
ItMBid to finaaht, not in any system of miper-
fisiflB, hewrever cogent, nor in any limitation
«f the operatioBS performed by the wcrk-
people to the smallest possible number, nor
mtheawpoitionmcBt of the difierent parts c€
the woA to the ^Bfferent capabilities -ef the
openrtivea, bst in conneeting the workman's
interest direetily with his labour; that is to
say, by makiug the amount of his earnings
depend upon the quantity of work done by
him. This is ordinarily efifected in manufac
ture by means of what is called piece-woik.
Almost all who work by the day, or for a fixed
salary — that is to say, those who labour for the
gain of others, not for their own — have, it has
been well remarked, ** no interest in doing more
than the smallest quantity of work that wUl
pass as a ftdfilment of the mere teims of their
engagement.** Owing to the insufficient in-
tercKt which day-labourers have in the result
of their labour, there is a natural tendency in
such labour to be extremely inefficient — a
tendency only to be overcome by vigilant su-
perintendence (such aa is carried on under the
strapping system among the joinera) on the
part of the persons who are interested in the
result. The master^s eye is notoriou^ the
only security to be relied on. But superintend
Ihcm OS you will, day labourers are so much
inferior to those who woric by the piece, that,
as we before said, the latter system is prac-
tised in all industrial occupations where the
woric admits of being put out in definite por-
tions, without involving the necessity of too
troublesome a surveillance to guard against
inferiority (or scamping) in the execution.
But if the labourer at piece-work is made to
produce a greater quantity than at day-wozk,
and this solely by connecting his own interest
with that of his employer, how much more
largely must the productiveness of workmen
be increased when labouring whoUy on their
own account ! Accordingly, it has been inva-
riably found, that whene\'er the operative imitea
in himself the double function of capitalist
and labourer, making up his own materials or
workmg on his own ^perty, his productivo-
ness single-handed is considerably greater
than can be attained under the large system
of production, where all the arts and appli-
ances of wh>^ extensive capital can avail
itself ore brought into operation.
Of the industry of working masters or trading
operatives in manufactures there are as }*et no
authentic accounts. We have, however, ample
records concerning the indefatigability of their
agricultural counterparts — the peasant-x>ropri-
eton of Tuscany, Switzerland, Germany, and
otlier countries where the labom'eTS are the
ownera of the soil they cultivHte. ** In walking
anywhere in the ne^bourhood of Ziirich,"
says Inghs, in his work on Switzerland, the
South cf France, and the Pyrenees, •* one is
struck with the extmordinaxy industry of the
inhabitants. When I used to open my ease-
ment, between four and five o'clock in tho
momittg, to look out ttpoo the lake and the
distant Alps, I saw the lahonrer in the fields ;
and when I returned from an evening walk,
long after aunaet, as late perhai» as half-past
eight, there was the labourer mowing his grass
or tying up his vines." The same state of
thing exists ameog the French peasaatiy
the aame eiicnmataBees. ** The in-
22S
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
dnstiy of the small proprietor/' says Arthur
Toimg, in his " Travels in France," ** were so
conspicuous and so meritorious, that no com-
mendation would he too great for it It was
sufficient to prove that property in land is, of
all others, the most active instigator to severe
and incessant labour." If, then, this principle
of working for one's self has been found to in-
crease the industry, and consequently the
productiveness of labourers, to such an extent
in agriculture, it is but natural that it should
be attended with the same results in manu-
factures, and that we should find the small
masters and the peasant -proprietors toiling
longer and working quicker than labourers
serving others rather than themselves. But
there is an important distinction to be drawn
between the produce of the peasant-proprietor
and that of the small master. Toil as dili-
gently as the little farmer may, since he culti-
vates the soil not for profit, but as a means of
subsistence, and his produce contributes di-
rectly to his support, it follows that his com-
forts must be increased by his extra-produc-
tion; or, in other words, that the more he
labours, the more food he obtains. The small
master, however, producing what he cannot
eat, must carry his goods to market and ex-
oh&nge tliem for articles of consumption.
Hence, by over -toil he lowers the market
against himself; that is to say, the more he
labours the less food he ultimately obtains.
But not only is it true that over-work makes
nnder-pay, but the converse of the proposition
is equally true, that under-pay makes over-
work ; that is to say, it is true of those trades
where the system of piece-work or small mas-
tership admits of the operative doing the
utmost amount of work that he is able to
accomplish, for the workman in such cases
seldom or never thinks of reducing hb ex-
penditure to his income, but rather of in-
creasing his labour, so as still to bring his
income, by extra production, up to his expen-
diture. This brings us to another important
distinction which it is necessary to make
between the peasant-proprietor and the small
master. The little farmer cannot increase his
produce by devoting a less amount of labour
to each of the articles; that is to say, he
cannot scamp his work without diminishing
his future stock. A given quantity of labour
must be used to obtain a given amount of
produce. None of the details can be omitted
without a diminution of the result: scamp the
ploughing and there will be a smaller crop.
In manufactures, however, Uie result is veiy
different. There one of the principal means
of increasing the productions of a particular
trade, and of the cabinet trade espedaUy, is
by decreasing the amount of wonc in each
article. Hence, in such cases, all kinds of
schemes and impositions are resorted to to
make the unskilled labour equal to the skilled,
and thus the market is glutted with slop pro-
ductions till the honoorable part of the trade,
both workmen and employers, are nltimatdy
obliged to resort to the same tricks as the rest.
There were, about twenty years ago, a nu-
merous body of tradesmen, who were em-
ployers, though not workmen to the general
public, known as ''trade-working mastefs.*
These men, of whom there are still a few, con.
fined their business solely to supplying tba
trade. They supplied the greater ^taUisb*
ments where there were showrooms with a
cheaper article than the proprietors of those
greater establishments might be able to havt
had manufactured on their own premisea.
They worked not on speculation, but to order,
and were themselves employers. Some em«
ployed, at a busy time, from twenty to for^
hands, all working on their premises, whkA
were merely adapted for making, and not for
selling or showing f^imiture. There are still
such trade-working masters, the extent of their
business not being a quarter what it waa;
neither do they now generally adhere to the
practice of having men to work on their pre*
raises, but they give out the material, whii^
their journeymen make up at their own abodes.
*' About twenty years ago," said an experi-
enced man to me, *' I dare say the smsll mas-
ters formed about a quarter of the trade. The
slacker trade becomes, the more the small
masters increase; that's because they cant get
other work to do ; and so, rather than starve^
they begin to get a little stuff of their own.
and mf^e up things for themselves, and sell
them as best they can. The great inerease fd
the small masters was when trade became so
dead. When was it that we used to have to go
about so with our things? About %yB yean
since, wasnt it ?" said he, appealing to one fd
his sons, who was at work in the same room
with him. " Yes, father," replied the lad.
"just after the railway bubble ; nobody wanted
anything at all then." The old man continued
to say, — ** The greater part of the men thai
couldn't get employed at the regular shops
then turned to making up things on their a»>
count ; and now, I should say, there's at least
one half working for themselves. About twebra
years ago masters wanted to cut the men down,
and many of the hands, rather than put up
with it, took to making up for thezniselTes.
Whenever there's a decrease of wages there's
always an increase of small masters ; for it's
not until men can't live comfortably by their
labour that they take to making things on
their own account."
I now oome to the amount of capital re-
quired for an operative cabinet-maker to begin
business on his own account.
To show the readiness with which any youth
out of his time, as it is called, can start in
trade as a garret cabinet master, I have learned
the following particulars : — This lad, when noi
living with his friends, usually occupies a gsr-
ret, and in this he constructs a rude bench
out of old materials, which may cost him 9i.
If he be penniless when he ceases .to be an
LONDON LABOUn AND THE LONDON POOR.
229
^fpreoatioe, tnd ean get no work as a journey-
man, wliich u nearly alwars the case, for
feasons I hare before stated, he assists ano-
ther garret-master to make a bedstead, per-
haps; and the established^arret-master car-
lies two bedsteads instead of one to the
alaoghter-honse. The lad's share of the pro-
ceeds may be abont &<. ; and ont of that, if his
needs will pennit him, he buys the article,
and so proceeds by degrees. Many men, to
start UiemselyeSy as it is called, have endured,
I am informed, something like starvation most
patiently. The tools are generally collected
by degrees, and often in the last year of ap-
pi«nticeship, out of the boy's earnings. They
are seldom bought first-hand, but at the ma-
ntle-store shops, or at the second-hand ftir-
nitnxe brokers' in the New Cut. The pur-
chaser grinds and sharpens them up at any
fiiendly workman's where he can meet with
the loan of a grindstone, and puts new handles
to diem himself out of pieces of waste wood.
lOf. or even bt, thus invested has started a
man with tools, while 20«. has accomplished it
in what might be considered good style. In
•ome cases the friends of the boy, if they are
not poverty-stricken, advance him from 40«. to
0O». to be^ with, and he must then shift for
bimselfl
When a bench and tools have been obtained,
the young master buys such material as his
means afibrd, and sets himself to work. If he
has a few shUlings to spare he makes himself
a sort of bedstead, and buys a rug or a sheet
md a little bedding. If he has not the means
to do so he sleeps on shavings stuffed into an
dd sack. In some few cases he hires a bench
alongside some other garret-master, but the
Sfiangement of two or three men occupying one
zoom for their labour is more frequent when
the garrets where the men sleep are required
fbp&eir wives' labour in any distinct business,
cr when the articles the men make are too
enmbrous, like wardrobes, to be carried easily
down the narrow stairs.
A timber merchant, part of whose business
consists in selling material to little masters,
gave me two instances, within his own know-
ledge, of journeymen beginning to manufacture
CO their own account.
A fitncy cabinet-maker had Z$, Qd, at his
command. "V^th this he purchased material
for a desk as follows : —
3 it. of solid I mahogany . . . I«. Od,
2tL of solid f cedar for bottom, <S;c. . 0 6
Mahogany top 0 3
Bead cedar for interior . .06
lining . . . . .04
Lock and key (no ward to lock) . .02
Hinges 0 1
Glue and springs . . 0 1^
2 Hi
The making of the desk occupied four hours,
as he bestowed extra pains upon it, and he
sold it to a slaughterer for 35. Od. He then
broke his fast on bread and v^aicr, bought
material for a second desk uud went to work
again, and so he proceeds now; toiling and
half-starving, and struggling to }^et 205. a-head
of the world to buy more wood at one time,
and not pause so often in his work. '^ Per-
haps,*' said my informant, " he'U marry, as
most of the small masters do, some foolish
servant-of-oll-work, who has saved 3/. or 42.|
and that will be his capital."
Another general cabinet-maker commenced
business on 305., a part of which he expended
in the material for a 4-foot chest of drawers.
3 ft. 6 inches of cedar for ends .
Sets of mahogany veneers for three \
big and two little drawers )
Drawer sweep (deal to veneer the) « -
front upon) . . . )
Veneer for top 13
Extras ( any cheap wood) for inside ) 5 q
of drawers, partitioning, &c, )
0 locks 18
8 knobs, 1«., glue, sprigs, &c. . .14
Set of four turned feet, beech-stained 1 0
4j.0d.
2 4
lli 7
For the article when completed he received
255., toiling at it for 27 or 28 hours. The
tradesman from whom I derived this informa-
tion, and who was familiar with every branch
of the trade, calculated that three-fifths of the
working cabinet-makers of London make for
the warehouses — in other words, that there are
3000 small masters in the trade. The most
moderate computation was that the number so
employed exceed one half of the entire body of
the 5000 metropolitan joume}'man.
The next point in this inquiry is concerning
the industry and productiveness of this class
of workmen. Of over-work, as regards ex-
cessive labour, and of over-production from
scamped workmanship, I heard the following
accounts which different operatives, both in
the fancy and general cabinet trade concurred
in giving, while some represented the labour
as of longer duration by at least an hour, and
some by two hours a day, than I have stated.
The labour of* the men who depend entirely
on the slaughter-houses for the purchase of
their articles, with all the disadvantages that I
described in a former letter, is usufdly seven
days a week the year through. That is seven
days — for Sunday- work is all but universal —
each of 13 hours, or 91 hours in all, while the
established hours of labour in the honourable
trade are six days of the week, each of 10 hours,
or 60 hours in all. Thus 50 per cent is added
to the extent of the production of low-priced
cabinet work merely from over-hours, but in
some cases I heard of 15 hours for seven days
in the week, or 105 hours in all. The excep-
tions to this continuous toil arc from one to
three hours once or twice in the week, when
the workman is engaged in purchasing his
230
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOB.
material of a timber merchant, who sells it in
small quantitieR, and from six to eight hours
when he is employed in conveying his goods
to a warehouse, or fh)m warehouse to ware-
house for sole. Concerning the hours of labour
I had the following minute particulars from a
garret-master who was a chairmaker.
*• I work from 6 every morning to 9 at night
— some work till 10 — I breakfast at 8, which
stops me for 10 minutes. I can breakfast in
less time, but it's a rest ; my dinner takes me
say 20 minutes at the outside, and my tea 8
minutes. All the rest of the time Tm slax-ing
nt my bench. How many minutes' rest is that,
sir ? 38. Well, say three-quarters of an hour,
and that allows a few sucks at a pipe when I
rest ; but I can smoke and work too. I have
only one room to work and eat in, or I should
lose more time. Altogether I labour 14| hours
every day, and I must work on Sundays at
least 40 Sundays in the year. One may as
well work as sit fretting. But on Sundays I
only work till it's dusk, or till five or six in
summer. "NVhen it's dusk I take a walk ; I'm
not well-dressed enough for a Sunday walk
when its light, and I cant wear my apron very
well on tliAt day to hide patches. But there's
eight hours tliat I reckon I take up every week
in dancing about to the slaughterers'. I'm
satisfled that I work very nearly 100 hours a-
week the year through, deducting the time
taken up by the slaughterers and buying stuff
— say eight hours a-week, it gives more than
DO hours a-wcek for my work, and there's
hundreds labour as hard as I do just for a
crust."
This excessive toil, however, is but one ele-
ment of over-production. Scampmg adds at
least 200 per cent to the productions of the
cabinet-maker's trade. I have ascertained
severnl cases of this over- work from scamping,
and adduce two. A very quick hand, a little
master, working as he called it ^* at a slaughter-
ing pace" for a warehouse, made 60 plain
writing desks in a week of 00 hours, whilst a
flrst-rntc workman, also a quick hand, made 18
in a week of 70 hours. The scamping hand
said he must work at the rate ho did to make
14». a-week from a slaughter-house, and so
used to such style of work had he become, that
though a few years back he did west-end work
in the best style, he could not now make 1 8
desks in a week, if compelled to finish ihem in
the style of excellence displayed in the work of
the journeyman employed for the honourable
trade. Perhaps, he added, he couldn't make
them in tliat style at all. The frequent use of
rosewood veneers in the fancy cabinet, and
their occasional use in the general cabinet
trade, gives, I was told, great facilities for
scamping. If, in his haste, the scamping hand
injure the veneer, or if it has been originally
faulty, he takes a mixture of gum shellac and
"colour," (colour being a composition of
Venetian red and lamp black) which he has
alraady by him, rubs it over the damaged part,
ssooths it with a slightly heated iron, and so
blends it with the colour of the rosewood that
the warehouseman does not detect the flaw.
Indeed, I was told that very few warehousemen
are judges of the frunitore they bought, and
they only require it to look weU enough for
sale to the public, who know even less than
themselves. In the general cabinet trade I
found the same ratio of scamping, compared
with the products of skilled labour in tha
honourable trade. A good workman made ft
4-foot mahogany chest of drawers in five
days, working the regular hours, and receiving
at piece-work price 35s. A scamping hand
made five of the same size^in a week, and had
time to carry them for sale to the warehouses,
wait for their purchase or refusal, and buy
materiaL But for the necessity of doing this
the scamping hand could have made seven in
the 01 hours of his week, of course in a rerj
inferior manner. They would hold together
for a time, I was assured, and that was all ;
but the slaughterers cared only to have them
viewy and cheap. These two cases exceed the
average, and I have dted them to show what
can bo done under the scamping system.
I now come to show how this scamp work
is executed, that is to say, by what helps or
assistants when such are employed. As in all
trades where lowness of wages is the rule, the
apprentice system prevails among the cheap
cabinet- workers. It prevails, however, among
the garret-masters, by vety many of them
having one, two, three, or four i^prentices,
and BO the number of boys thus employed
through the whole trade is considerable. Tbaa
refers principally to the general cabinet trade.
In the fancy traide the number is greater, as
the boys' labour is more readily avulable, hot
in this trade the greatest number of apprentices
is employed by such warehousemen as are
manufacturers, as some at the east end are —
or rather by the men that they constantly- Ireep
at woriE. Of theso men one has now 8, and
another 14 boys in his senice, some appren-
ticed, some merely engaged and discharged at
pleasure. A sharp boy, thus apprenticed, in
six or eight months becomes handy, but four
out of five of the workmen thus brought up
can do nothing well but their own particular
branch, and tliat only well as fiir as celerity,in
production is considered.
I have before alluded to the utter destitution
of the cheap workers belonging to the cabinet
trade, and I now subjoin the statement of a
man whom I found last winter in the Asylum
for the Houseless Poor.
'* I have been out of work a twelvemonth, as
near as I can reckon. ^N'hen I was in wori^ I
was sometimes at piece-work and sometimes
at day-work. When I first joined the trade
(I never served my time, my brother learnt
me) there was plenty of work to do. For this
last twelvemonth I liave not been able to get
anything to do, not at my owii trade. I have
made up one dozen of mahogany chairs on my
LQNDOy LABOUB AND THE LONDON POOB.
231
own tccoimt. The wood and labour of them
cost me 1/. 55., I had to pay for a man to do
the earring and swoeping of them, and I had
to ffite U, for the wood. I could get it much
chMper noWf but then I didn't know anything
about the old broken ship-wood that is now
xutd for ftamiture. The chairs I made I had
to seli at a sacrifiee. I was a week making
them, and got only 2/. for the dozen when
they were done. By right I should hare had
afe least JM)i. for them, and that would have left
2dt. for my week's work, but as it was I hod
j oriy lAs. dear money, and I have worked at
theim much harder than is usual in the trade.
There are two large houses in London tliat are
making lai^e fortunes in this manner. About
1 a fortnight after I found out that I couldn't
ponbly get a living at this work, and as I
I didn't &el inclined to make the fortunes of the
lacge houses by starving myself, I gave up
woiking at chair-making on my own account.
I then made a few clothes-horses. I kept at
that ior about six months. I hawked them in
I the streets, but I was half-starved by iL Some
I days I sold them, and some I was without
taking a penny. I never in one day got rid of
mora than half-a-dozen, and they brought 3«.,
ottt of which there was the wood and tho other
materials to pay for, and they would be Is. Gd.
itleaat. If I could get rid cdftwo or thxeo in a
dqr I bought I did preUy well, and my profit
<B these was about 9 J., njt more. At last I
beeame so reduced by the work that I was not
lUe to buy any more wood, and the week after
tiMft I was locced to quit my lodging. I owed
thne weeks' rent, at Is. 6d. a week, and was
tvaed out in consequence. I had no things
ibr them to seize, they had all gone long be-
ftee. Then I was thrown upon the streets. I
had no friends (my brothers are both out of
the eountry) and no home. I wus sleeping
abeot anywhere I could. I used to go and sit
at the cofl^houses where I knew my mates
were in the habit of going, and they would
gnre me a bit of something to eat, and make a
eoQection to pay for a bed for me. At last
this even began to fail me, my mates could do
ao mors £or me. Then I applied to some of
the unions, but they refused to admit me into
the casual ward on account of my not being a
traveller. I was a whole week walking in tlie
stieets without ever lying to rest. I used to
go to Billingsgato to get a nap for a few
minBtes, and then I used to have a doze now
and then on a door-step and under tlie railway
trehes. At this time I had scarcely any food
tt all, not even bread. At last I was fairly
wom out, and being in the neighbourhood, I
■Vplied at St. Luke's, and told them 1 was
starriog. They said they could do nothing for
ifit, and advised me to apply at the Houseless
l^oor Asylum. I did so, and was admitted
directly. I have been four nights in the
Asjlum already, and I don't know what I shall
do when I leave. My tools are all gone ; they
tie aohl, and I have no money to buy new ones.
There are hundreds in the trade like me, walk-
ing about the streets with notliing to do and
DO place to put their heads in."
I shall now conclude with tho following
statement as to the effects produced by the
slop cabinet business upon tho honourable
part of the trade. I derived my information
from Mr. , one of the principal masters at
the west- end, and who has the highest charac-
ter for consideration for his men. '* Since the
estabhshment of slaughter- houses, and aptly
indeed," said my informant, " from my know-
ledge of their eflects upon the workmen, have
they been named — tho demand fur articles of
the best cabinet-work, in the manui'acturo of
which the costliest woods and the moat skilled
labour London can supply are required, has
diminished upwards of 25 per cent. The de-
mand, moreover, continues still to diminish
gradually. The result is obvious. Only three
men are now employed in this trade in lieu of
four OS formerly, and the men displaced may
swell the lists of the underpaid, and even of the
slop-workers. The expense incurred by some
of the leading masters in tlie honourable trade
is considerable, and for objects the designs of
which inferior masters pirate from us. Tho
designs for new styles of furniture add from
5 to 10 per cent to the cost of the most elabo-
rate articles that we manufacture. Tho first
time any of these novel designs comes to the
hummer by tho side of a gentleman's efifocts
they are certain of piracy, and so the pattern
descends to the slaughter-houses. These
great houses are frequently offered prices, and
by very wealthy persons, that are an insult to
a tradiesman wishing to pay a fair price to
his workmen. For instance, for an 8-foot
mahogany bookcase, after a new design, and
made to the very best style of art, the material
being the choicest, and every tiling about in
admirablti keeping, the price is 50 guineas. ' O
dear 1 ' some rich customer will say, * 50 guineas !
I'll give you 20, or, indeed, I'll give you 25."*
(I afterwards heard from a journeyman that
this would be tho cost of tho labour alone.)
The gentleman I saw spoke highly of the in-
telligence and good conduct of the men em-
ployed, only society men being at work on his
premises. Ho feared that the slop-trade, iJ'
not checked, would more and more swamp the
honourable trade.
Tub Doll's>£ze Makes.
A CTTRTOUS part of the street toy business is
tho solo of doUs, and especially that odd
brjinch of it, doll's-eyo maJdng. There ore
only two persons fullo^dng Uiis business in
London, and by the most intelligent of thoso
I was furnished with the following curious
information : —
" I make all kinds of eyc5," the eye-manu-
fiicturer said. " both dolls' and human eyes ;
birds' eyes are mostly manufactured in Bir-
mingham, and as yon say, sir, bulls' eyes at
Ko. LXVllI.
330
LOSJOOH LABOUR ANJ> TBM J^
n*XJL
material of a tiinber irnirnhmt, wlio atHv it^
small qnantideB, and from lis to d^ '
▼hen he is employed in 6onf«v>-
to a wanhonse, or ftom -^
house for sale. ConoHii'
I had the fbOowIiig mb
^f'y
^ ' '^^ ^aman isfm^ Thcso are two
' ..^-^.Aoe I hare Mack and hnzel, and
,"j> Mue and grqr." [Here tlie nioa
/*^ /ids off a coui&e of boxes, nlNHii
«^4j binnacles, that stood on the talile:
" I vofk from fl ev
—some wofffc tm V
■topi me frr 10 IT
lest time, hittil'
■V 20 nuonta
snittfeM. All
alia^
sirf 3e. ^
and that r
rat; bnt
■■■'M
onlj onf
^^^ij^^^^^ f^. «jmmon
.^'
^J^'
Tl^^^^\%^. but now
fhfl decrease of
_ " though
jn the trado in
Ls alwBjs pufth-
Immo-
aU, he go&s
£y^i^ii*f ^ joirer flgnfe than in the
t^iS^ * and »o tl)o pricca have Wen
^^00 ^J^Z^^ J Hi'
^*^S*^ i ^1** bueiness, as well
^^'ff?? Aft^r the Christmas holidays
brisk and a
in
t^ Hjifoh ^^ ^"^^^ generaUy litUo to do,
itf "iLri tb»t ^^^ ^J"^ begin to look up
***. ^'^d th« busin^sa remsina pmetty good
* ^h wi"! ^^ October, Wber© wo make one
^ f mi!s f()r home consumption, we miike
^ti esporUtion; a great many eyes go
'JJ^j^ Y^B, I snppoao we shonld bo soon
■Jjjjjpiilated with dolls if a great number of
J^ were not to emigrate every year. The
^unl inerease of dolk goes on at an olnnn-
jjjg mlei As you say, sir, the yearly rate of
^oailiiy must bo veiy high, to be Hun?j but
vti]I it's nothing to the rate at which they are
broogbt into the world* They can't make
^dx dolls in America, sir, so wo ship oft a
great many there* The rctuon why they
can't produce dolls in Ameriea ia owing to the
dim ate. The wai won*t set in very hot wea-
ther, and it cracks in extreme c(^d. I knew
a psity who went out to the Umted States to
start »3 doU-maker. He took Beverol gross of
my eyes with him, but he con^dn't succeed.
The eyes that we mnko for Spanish America
are nil blnck. A blue-eyed doll wouldn't sell
nt all there. Hots, howevcrj notliing but blue
eyes goes down ; that's because it's the colour
of the Queen's eyea, and abe aeta the fashion
in our eyes as in other things, We make the
satne kind of eyes for the gnttn-pcrcbn doUii
as fer the was. It ia true, lbs gutta-percha
comphixion isn't portieulorly dear; ncvnrlhe-
IcsSj the eyes I moke for the washable faces
aro nil of the natuml lint, and if th© fnitta-
pefcha doUa look rather bilious, why I oiu't a
t'nin^ to make my eyes look bilious to match.
^j^^ier^* oontf!«f»i»^ IPO different eves, imd so
, aiture^ tLat tiie elfect pruKliieotl upon a
100 nnaccnstomed to Uio sight was ninst
fMcdiar^ and far fh>m plea^^^nt. The whola
af the 360 optics ell seemed to be staling
direetly at the spectator, and occnaioneil a
feeling somewhat similar tn tlio bfl^nKl^■nn€nt
one ei[perienc^s on suddenly k^ioinirig oa
object of geuer^ notice ; as if the ^^k^, ind*4ed,
of a whole lectUTTC-room were crnnimi^d into a
few square inches, and oil turned full upon
you. The eyes of the whole world, as we
Erny, literedly appeared to lie Jixed upon one,
and it WAS almost impossible at first to
Inok at them without instinctively averting
tlie ht^ftd. The hundred eyes of Argns wero
positively jnwigni (leant in compariwou to the
a8r> belonging to the human eye-maker,]
Here you see are the ladies' eye-," he con-
tinued, taking one fh>m the bine-eye tmy,
■* You sec there^B more sparkle and brilUjmce
about them than the gentlemen's. Here's
two different ladies' eyes; they belong to Hue-
looking young women, both of them. Wheo
a lady or gentleman comes tn ua for an ey«^,
we are obliged to have a sitting just like a
port rait- painter. We take no sketch, bnt
study the tints of the perft>ct eye. Tbtre are
a number of eyoa como over froni France, bnt
these are generally what ve call misfits ; tb^
are sold cheap, and seldom match the oihar
eye. Again, firom not fitting tight over the
ball like those that are mode ejtpressly for the
person, they seldom moTC * consentaneously,'
as 5t is termed, with tlje natural eye, and hare
therefore a tctj unpleasant and tised ataf«,
worse nlmost than the defective eye itselL
Now, the eyes wo make move so freely, and
have such a natural appeamuce, that. I con
assure you a gentiemon who had one of his
from me passed nine doctors witboat the
deception being detected*
There is a I oily customer of mine who has
been married three years to her husbands and
I believe he doesn't know Ihot fihe has a Mse
eye to thia day.
** The generality of persons whom wo sen-e
take out their eye** when they go to be^K and
sleep with them either under tht'ir piUoWt^or
else in a tumbler of water on the toilot-lablo
at their side. Mofit married kJie^, however,
never take their eyes out at all.
*■ Some people wear out a false eye In half
the time of others. This doesn't arise irom
the greater use of them, or reUing th(?ni about,
but from the increased secretion of (he uarn,
which iK-t on the false eye like acid r>u metal,
and so co^ro^les and roughens the suiljiee.
This roughness produces ioflammaLiou, and
then n n^^w eye becomea necessary. The
Scotch lose a great many eyes, why 1 cunnob
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
233
tty; and the men in this eountiy lose more
tjesy nearly two to one. We generally make
only one eye, but I did once make two false
eyes for a widow lady. She lost one fii-st, and
we repaired the loss so well, that on her
losing the other eye she got us to make her a
second.
" False eyes are a great charity to servants.
If they lose an eye no one will engage them.
In Paris there is a charitable institution for
the supply of fidse eyes to the poor; and I
really think, if there was a similar establish-
ment in this country for famishing artificial
eyes to those whose bread depends on their
looks, like servants, it would do a great deal
of good. Wo always supplies eyes to such
people at half-price. My usual price is 2/. 2s.
for one of my best eyes. That eye is a couple
of goine&s, and as fine an eye as you would
iriidi to see in any young woman's head.
" I suppose we make from 300 to 400 false
eyes every year. The great art in making
a false eye is in polishing the edges quite
smooth. Of dolls' eyes we make about 6000
dozen pairs of tho common ones every year.
1 take it that there are near upon 24,000
dozen, or more than a quarter of a million,
fisirs of all sorts of dolls' eyes made annually
in London."
THE COAL-HEAVERS.
Tbe transition from the artisan to the
labourer is curious in many respects. In
-pissing from the skilled operative of the west-
flnd to the unskilled workman of tlie eastern
qosrter of London, the moral and intellectual
ehsnge is so great, that it seems as if we were
in a new land, and among another race. The
artisans are almost to a man red-hot poli-
ticians. They are sufficiently educated and
thoughtful to have a sense of their importance
in the State. It is true they may entertain
exaggerated notions of their natural rank and
position in the social scale, but at least they
have read, and reflected, and argued upon the
snbject, and their opinions are entitled to con-
sideration. The political character and senti-
ments of the working classes appear to me
to be a distinctive feature of tho age, and they
aro a necessary consequence of the dawning
intelligence of the mass. As their minds ex-
pand, they are naturally led to take a more
«nlaxiged view of their calling, and to contem-
plate their labours in relation to the whole
framework of society. They begin to view
their class, not as a mere isolated body of
workmen, but as an integral portion of the
nation, contributing their quota to the general
welfare. If property has its duties as well as
its rights ; labour, on the other hand, they say,
has its rights as well as its duties. The
artisans of London seem to be generally well-
informed upon these subjects. That they ex-
press their opinions violently, and often
savagely, it is my duty to acknowledge ; but
that they are the unenlightened and imthink-
ing body of people that they are generally
considered by those who never go among
them, and who see them only as " the dan-
gerous classes,'' it is my duty also to deny. So
far as my experience has gone, I am bound to
confess, that I have found the skilled labourers
of the metropoUs the very reverse, both
morally and intellectually, of what the popular
prejudice imagines them.
The unskilled labourers are a dififerent class
of people. As yet they are as unpolitical as
footmen, and instead of entertaining violent
democratic opinions, they appear to have no
political opinions whatever; or, if they do
possess any, they rather lead towards the
maintenance of "things as they are," than
towards the ascendancy of the working people.
I have lately been investigating the state of
the coalwhippers, and these reflections are
forced upon me by the marked difierence in
the character and sentiments of these people
from those of the operative tailors. Among
the latter class there appeared to be a genercd
bias towards the six points of the Charter ; but
the former were extremely proud of their
having turned out to a man on the 10th of
April, 1848, and become special constables for
the maintenance of law and order on the day
of the great Chartist demonstration. As to
which of these classes are the better members
of the state, it is not for me to ofier an opinion ;
I merely assert a social fact. The artisans of
the metropolis are intelligent, and dissatisfied
with their political position : the labourers of
London appear to be the reverse ; and in pass-
ing from one class to the other, tho change
is so curious and striking, that the pheno-
menon deserves at least to be recorded in this
place.
The labourers, in point of numbers, rank
second on the occupation-hst of the metro-
poUs. Tho domestic servants, as a body of
people, have the first numerical position, being
as many 168,000, while the labourers are less
than one-third that number, or 50,000 strong.
They, however, are nearly twice as many as
the boot and shoemakers, who stand next upon
the Ust, and muster 28,000 indiriduals among
them ; and they are more than t^ioe as many
as the tailors and breeches-makers, who are
fourtli in regard to their number, and count
23,500 persons. After these come the mil-
liners and dressmakers, who are 20,000 in
number.
According to the Criminal Returns of tho
metropolis (for a copy of which I am indebted
to the courtesy of a gentleman who expresses
himself most anxious to do all in his power to
aid the inquiry), the labourers occupy a most
unenviable pre-eminence in police history.
One in every twenty-eight labourers, according
to tlieso returns, has a predisposition for sim-
ple larceny : the average for the whole popula-
tion of London is one in every 200 individuals ;
884
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
so that the labourers may be Boid to be more
than nine limos as dishonest as the frencrality
of i)Ooplc resident in the niotn»p«»li3. In
drunki-nnoss they occnpy tlie sanu? prominent
position. One ill every twenty-two individuals
of the Iftliourinp class was charged with being
intoxicated in the year 184H ; whi^reas the
averasrr nnniher of drunkards in the whole
population of Tiondon is one in every 113 indi-
%idnals. Nor are they less pugnaciously in-
clined: fmo in evj'iy tw«.*nty-six having been
charged with a common assault, of a more or
less aggravated form. The labourers of Lon-
don are, therefore, nine times as dishonest,
five times as dmnk<Mi, and nine times as
Ravage as tlie rest of the community. Of the
state of their education as a body of people I
have no similar moans of jud^jjing at present ;
nor am I in a position to test their ini-
nrovidencc or their poverty in the same con-
clusive manner. Talcing, however, the Govern-
ment returns of tlie number of labourers
located in the different unions throughout the
countiy at the time of tjiking the last census,
I find tliat ono in ever}- 140 of the class were
paupers ; while the average fi)r all England
and Wales was one in every ir>9 i)ersons: so
that, wliilc the Government returns show the
labourers generally to be extraordinarily dis-
honest, dninken, and pugnacious, their \nces
cannot be ascribed to the poverty of their call-
ing; for, compan^d with other occupations,
their avocation appears to produce fewer
paupers than the generality of employment«5.
Of the moral and prudential qualities of tlic
coolwhippers and coalporters, as a special por-
tion of I ho labouring population, the crude,
Tindigested, and essentially unscientific cha-
racter of all the Government returns will not
allow me to judge. Even the Census affonls
us little or no opportunity of estimating the
numbers of tho class. The only information
to be obtiiined from that docmneut — whos»^
insufflcirncy is a national disgrace to us, for
therp the trading and working classes are all
jumbled together in the most perplexing
conf\ision, and the occupations classitie<l in a
manner that would shame tho merest tyro in
logic — ia the following :—
Of coal and coHierj' agents and factors
there are in London . . .10
Ditto dealers and merchants . . l.'»41
Ditto labonmrs, heavers, and porters 17 Of)
Ditto meters 130
Total in the coal trade in London . 3303
Deduct from this the numl>er of mer-
chants from tho London Post Office
Duectory 50 ."i
Hence tho coal labourers in the
metropolis amount to . . . S6Q8
Bnt this is far from being an accurate result.
There are at present in London upwards of
1900 (say 2000) registered coalwhippers, and
as many more coalbackers or porters. These
altogether would givo as many as 4000 eoal-
laboiirers. besides, there are 150 meters; so
that, altogether, it may be safely snad tiiat
the number engaged in the whipping and
portera.ee of coals in London is 40fH) and odd.
The following statistics, carefully collecled
from otHcial returns, wiU fiimish our reados
with some idea of the amazing increase in the
importation of coal : —
" About 300 years ago (say obont 15rM)) one
or two sliips were sufiicient for the demand
and supply of London. In 1015, about 200
were equal to its demand ; in ITO'i, about 000
ships were engaged in the London co-il-trade ;
in ISO'), 4Sr)0 cargoes, containing about
l,3ri0,000 tons ; in 1820, ftS84 cargoes, can.
taining 1,002,902 tons; in 1830, 7108 cargoes,
contAining 2,070,275 tons ; in 1840, 0132 car-
goes, containing 2,500.809 tons; in 1845,
2t»90 ships were employed in carrnng 11,087
cargoes, containing 3,403,320 tons ; nud durhig
the year 1848, 2717 ships, making 12,207
voyages, and containing 3,418,340 tons. The
increase in the importation from the jear
183K to 1848, when the respective importations
were Si,'»18.0h5 tons and 3,418,340 t«>ns, is up-
wards of 90 per cent. Now, by taking 2700
vessels as tlu» actual number now employed,
and by calculating such vessels to average 300
tons burden per ship, and giving to a vessel of
that size a crew of eight men, it will appear
that at the present time 21,600 seamen are em-
ployed in the carrying department of the Lon-
don cool -trade."
Beforo visiting tho district of Wapping,
wliere the greater part of the coal labour is
carried on, I applied to the Clerk and Regis-
trar of the Coal Exchange for the statistics
connected with the body of which ho is an
othcer. Such statistics — as to the extent of
their great traffic, the weekly returns of sales, in
short, the ramifications of an inqmiy em-
bracing maritime, mercantile, mining, and
labouring interests, are surely the weekly
i-outine of the business of the Il«:gistrar's office.
I WHS promised a series of returns by the gen-
tleman in question, bnt I did not receive and
could not obtain them. Another officer, tlie
SecretaiT of the Meters* Office, when applied
to, with the sanction of his co-officer, the
Cl( rk and Registrar, required a written appli-
cation whieh should be attende^d to ! I do not
allndc to these gentlemen with the slightest
inclination unduly to censure them. Tho
tnUh is, with questions affecting htbonr and
tho poor they have little sympathy. The
labourer, in their eyes, is but a machine ; so
many labourers are as so many hor<:e-power.
To deny, or withhold, or delay information
required for the piupose** of the present
inquiiy is, however, unavailing. The matter
I have given in fulness and in precision, with-
out any aid from the gentlemen referred to
LOKDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
235
slioirs that it was more through conrteRY than
through necessity that I applied to them in
the first instance.
Finding my time, therefore, only wasted in
dancing attendance upon city coal otticials,
I made the best of my way down to the Coal-
whippers* OflBce, to glean my infonnation
among the men the mselvcs. The following is
the result of my inquiries : —
The cooi-vessels are principally moored in
that part of the river called the Pool.
The Pool, rightly so called, extends from
Eatcliffe-cross, near tlie Regenl's-ranal, to
Execution -dock, and is about a mile long, but
the jurisdiction of the Coal Commissioners
reaches from the Arsenal at Woolwich to
London-bridge. The Pool is divided into the
Upper and Lower Pool ; it is more commonly
called the North and South side, because the
eolliers arc arranged on the Katcliflo and
Shadwell side, in the Lower Pool, and on the
Redriff and Kotherhithe side, in the Upper.
The Lower Pocd consists of seven tiers, which
generally contain each from fourteen to twenty
ships; these are moored stem to stem, and
lie firom seven to ten abreast. The Upper
Pool contains about ten tiers. The four tiers
at Mill-hole are equally largo with the tiers
cf the Lower Pool. Those of Church-hole,
which are three in number, are somewhat
smaller ; and those of the fast tiers, which arc
also three in number, are single, and not
double tiers like the rest. The fleet often
consists of from 200 to 300 ships. In the
vinter it is the largest, many of the colliers in
the summer season going foreign voyages. An
easteriy Yfind prevents the vessels making
their way to London ; and, if continuing for
any length of time, will throw the whole of
the coalwhippers out of work. In the winter,
the coalwhipper is occupied about five days
out of eight, and about three days out of eight
in the summer ; so that, taking it all the year
round, he is only about half of his time
employed. As soon as a collier arrives at
Gravescnd, the captain sends the ship's papers
np to the factor at the Coal Exchange, infonn-
ing him of the quality and quantity of coal in
the ship. The captain then falls into some
tier near Gravesend, and remains there until
he is ordered nearer London by the horboiu*-
master. When the coal is sold and the ship
supplied with the coal - meter, the captain
receives orders from the harbour- master to
come up into the Pool, and take his berth in
a particular tier. Tlie captain, when ho has
moored his shij) into the Pool as directed,
applies nt the Coalwhippers* OflSce, and ** the
gang " next in rotation is sent to him.
There are upwards of 200 gangs of coal-
whippers. The closs, supernumeraries in-
cluded, numbers about 2000 individuals. The
number of meters is iriO ; the consequence is,
that more than one-fourth of the gangs are
maprovided with meters to work with them.
Hence there are upwards of fifly gangs (of
nine men each) of coalwhippers, or altogether
4«'>0 men more Uian there is any real occasion
for. The consequence is, that each coalwhip*
per is necessarily thrown out of employ one-
quarter of his time by the excc»ss of hands.
The cause of this extra number of hands
being kept on the books is, that 'Aiien there
is a glut of vessels in the river, the coal mer-
chants may not be delayed in having their
cargoes delivered from wont of whippera.
When such a glut occurs, the merchant has it
in his power to employ a private meter; so
that the IftO to 500 men are kept on the year
through, merely to meet the particular exi-
gency, and to promote the mcichanfs conve-
nience. I)id any good arise from this system
to the public, the evil might be overlooked;
but since, owing to the combination of tlie
coalfactors, no more coals can come into the
market than are sufficient to meet the demand
without lowerinif the price, it is clear tliat the
extra A^O or 500 men are kept on and allowed
to deprive their fellow-labourers of one-quarter
of tlieir regular work as whippers, without any
advantage to the public.
The c.>alwhipper8, previous to the passing of
the Act of Parliament in 1848, were employed
and pjdd by the publicans in the neighbour-
hood of the river, from Towcr-hill to Lime-
house. Under this system, none but the most
dissolute and intemperate obtained employ-
ment; in fact, the more intemperate they w^ere
the more rciidily they found work. The publi-
cans were the relatives of the northern ship-
owners; they mostly had como to London
penniless, and being placed in a tavern by
their relatives, soon became shipowners them-
selves. There were at that time seventy
taverns on the north side of the Thames, be-v
low bridge, employing coalwhippers, and all
of the landlords making fortunes out of the
earnings of the pi ople. When a ship came to
be *' made up," that is, for the hands to be
hired, the men assembled round the bar in
crowds and began calling for drink, and out-
bidding each other in the extent of their
orders, so as to induce the landlord to give
them employment. If one called for beer, the
next would be sure to give an onler for rum ;
for he who spent most at the public-house had
the greatest chance of emploj-ment. After
being •* taken on," their first care was to put
up a score at the public-house, so as to idease
their employer, the publican. In the morning
before going to their work, they would inva-
riably call at the house for a quartern of gin
or rum ; and they were obliged to take off ijvitli
them to the ship ''a bottle," holding nine pots
of beer, and that of the worst description, for
it was the invariable practice among the publi-
cans to supply the coalwhippers with the very
worst articles at the highest prices. When
the men retumed from their work tliey went
back to the public-house, and there remained
drinking the greater part of the nigl^t. Ho
must have been a very steady man indeed, I
286
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
am told, 'who could manage to return home
sober to his wife and family. The conse-
quence of this was, the men used to pass their
days, and chief part of their nights, drinking
in the public-house; and I am credibly in-
formed that frequently, on the publican set-
tling with tliem after leaving the ship, instead
of having anything to receive tliey were
brought in several shillings in debt; this
remained as a score for the next ship : in fact,
it was only those who were in debt to the
publican who wer© sure of employment on
the next occasion. One publican had us many
OS hftoen ships ; another had even more ; and
there was scarcely one of them without his
two or three colliers. The children of the
coalwhippers were almost reared in the tap-
room, and a person who has had great expe-
rience in the trade, tells me he knew as many
OS 500 youths who were transported, and as
many more who met with an untimely death.
At one house tliere wore forty young robust
men employed, about seventeen years ago,
and of these there are only two living at pre-
sent. My informant tells me that ho has
frequently seen as many as 100 men at one
time fighting pell-mell at King James's -stairs,
and the publican standing by to see fair play.
The average money spent in drink by each
man was about Vi$, to each ship. There
were about 10,000 ships entered the Pool each
year, and nine men were required to clear
each ship. This made the annual expenditure
of the coalwhippers in drink, 54,000/., or 27/. a-
vear perman. This is considered an extremely
low average. The wives and families of the
men at tliis time were in the greatest destitu-
tion, the daughters invariably became prosti-
tutes, and the mothers ultimately went to swell
the number of paupers at tlie union. This
state of things continued till 1843, when, by
the ctforts of three of the coalwhippers, the
Legislature was induced to pass an Act for-
bidding the system, and appointing Commis-
sioners for the registration and regulation of
coalwhippers in tlie port of London, and so
establishing an office where the men were in
future employed and paid. Under this Act,
every man then following the calling of a coal-
whipper was to be registered. For this regis-
tration 4(/. was to be paid; and every man
desirous of entering upon the same business
had to pay the same sum, and to have his
name registered. The employment is open to
any labouring man ; but every new hand,
after registering himself, must work for
twenty-one days on half-pay before he is con-
sidered to be "broken in," and entitled to
take rank and receive pay as a regular coal-
whipper.
All the coalwhippers are arranged in gangs
of eight whippers, with a basket-man or fore-
man. These gangs are numbered from 1 up
to 218, which is the highest number at the
present time. The basket-men, or foremen,
enter their names in a rotation-book kept
in the office, and as their names stand in
that book so do they take their turn to clear
the ship that is offered. On a ship being
offered, a printed form of application, kept in
the office, is filled up by the captain, in which
he states the number of tons, the price, and
time in which she is to be delivered. If tha
gang whose turn of work it is reflise the ship
at the price offered, then it is offered to aU
the gangs, and if accepted by any other gang,
the next in rotation may claim it as their
right, before all others. Li connexion with
the office there is a long hall, extending from
the street to the water-side, where the men
wait to take their turn. There is also a room
called the basket-men's room, where the foi^e-
men of the gang remain in attendance. There
is likewise a floating pier called a depot, wliich
is used as a receptacle for the tackle with
which the colliers are unloaded. This float-
ing pier is fitted up with seats, where
the men wait in the summer. The usual
price at present for delivering the colliers is
8rf. per ton ; but in case of a less price being
offered, and the gangs all refusing it, then the
captain is at liberty to employ any hands he
pleases. According to the Act, however, the
owner or purchaser of the coals is at liberty to
employ his own servants, provided they have
been in his senice fourteen clear days pre-
vious, and so have become what the Act terms
hon&Jide senants. This is very often taken
advantage of, for the purpose of obtaining
labourers at a less price. One lighterman,
who is employed by the ^as companies to
^' lighter " their coals to theur various destina>
tions, makes a practice of employing parties
whom he calls the bond fide sen-ants of tlie gas
companies, to deliver the coals at a x>enny per
ton less than the regular pridb. Besides this,
he takes one man's pay to himself, and so
stops one-tenth of the whole proceeds, thereby
realizing, as he boasts, the sum of 300/. per
annum. Added to tliis, a relative of his keeps
a beer-shop, where the " bonA fide servants "
spend the chief part of their earnings,
thereby bringing back the old system, which
was the cause of so much misery and destitu-
tion to the work-people.
According to the custom of the trade, the rate
at wliich a ship is to be delivered is forty-nine
tons per day, and if the ship cannot be de-
livered at that rate, owing to the merchant fail-
ing to send craft to receive the coals, then the
coalwhippers are entitled to receive pay at the
rate of forty-nine tons per day, for each day
they are kept in the ship over and above the
time allowed by the custom of the trade for the
delivery of the coals. The merchants, how-
ever, if they should have failed to send cxaft, and
60 keep the men idle on the first days of the
contract, can, by the by-laws of the Commis-
sioners, compel the coalwhippers to deliver
the ship at the rate of ninety-eight tons per
day: the merchants surely should bo made
to pay for the loss of time to the men at tha
LONDON lABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
237
seme rate. The wrong done by this practice
IB rendered more apparent by the conduct
of the merchants daring the brisk and slack
periods. TVhen there is a slack, the mer-
ehants aro all anxioos to ^t their yessels
deKyered as £ist as they can, becanso coals are
wonting, and are conseqaently at a high price ;
then the men are taxed beyond their power,
and are frequently made to deliver 100 to 200
tons {Mor day, or to do four days' work in one.
On the ecmtraiy, when there is a glut of ships,
and the merchants are not particularly anxious
about the dehrery of the coals, the men are
left to idle away their time upon the decks for
the ILrat two or three days of the contract, and
then forced to the same extra exertion for the
last two or three days, in order to make up for
the lost time of the merchant, and so save him
from being put to extra expense by his own
neglect. The cause of the injustice of these
by-laws may be fairly traced to the fact of
there being several coal-merchants among the
Commissioners, who are entrusted with the
formation of bye-laws and regulations of the
trade. The ooalfaotors are generally ship-
owners, and occasionally pit-owners; and
when a glut of ships come in they combine
together to keep up the prices, especially in
the winter time, for they keep back the car-
goaa, and only offer such a number of ships
as will not influence the market. Since the
passing of the Act, establishing the Coal-
whippers' Office, and thus taking the em-
ployment and pay of the men out of the hands
of the publicans, so visible has been the
improTement in the whole character of the
labourers, that they have raised themselves
in the respect of all who know them.
Within the last few years they have es-
tablished a Benefit Society, and they expended
in the year 1847, according to the last account,
646/. odd, in the rehef of the sick and the
burial of the dead. They have also established
a superannuation fhnd, out of which they allow
5s. per week to each member who is incapaci-
tated from old age or accident They are, at
the present time, paying such i)en8ions to
twenty members. At the time of the cele-
brated Chartist demonstration, on the 10th of
April, the coalwhippers were, I believe, the
first dass of persons who spontaneously offered
their services as special constables.
Further than this they have established a
school, with accommodation for six hundred
scholars, out of their small earnings. On one
occasion as much as 80/. was collected among
the men for the erection of this institution.
The men are liable to many accidents ;
some &U off the plank into the hold of the
▼essel, and are killed ; others are injured by
large lumps of coal ficdling on them ; and, in-
de^, so frequent are these disasters, that the
Commissioners have directed that the indi-
Tisible fraction which remains, after dividing
the earnings of the men into nine equal parts,
should be i^lied to the relief of the iigured ;
and although the f^d raised by these insig-
niflcant means amounts in the course of the
year to 30/. or 40/., the whole is absorbed by
the calamities.
Furnished with this information as to the
general character and regulations of the call-
ing, I then proceeded to visit one of the vessels
in the river, so that I might see the nature of
the labour performed. No one on board the
vessel (the , of Newcastle) was previously
aware of my visit or its object I need not
describe the vessel, as my business is with the
London labourers in the coal trade. It is
necessary, however, in order to show the na-
ture of the labour of coal -whipping, that I
should state that the average depth of coid in
the hold of a collier, from ceiling to combing,
is sixteen feet, while there is an additional
seven feet to be reckoned for the basket-
man's *• boom," which makes the height that
the coals have to be raised by the whippers
from twenty- three to thirty feet The comple-
ment of a gang of coalwhippers is about nine.
In the hold are four men, who rcHeve each
other in tilling a basket — only one basket
being in use with coal. The labour of these
four men is arduous : so exhausting is it in
hot weather that their usual attire is found to
be cumbrous, and they have often to work
merely in their trousers or drawers. As fast
OS tlieso four men in the hold fill the basket,
which holds l^cwt, four whippers draw it up.
This is effected in a peculiar and, to a person
unused to the contemplation of the process,
really an impressive manner. The four whip-
pers stand on the deck, at the foot of what is
called *• a way.** This way resembles a short
rude ladder : it is formed of four broken oars
lashed lengthways, from four to five feet in
height (gi\ing a step from oar to oar of more
than a foot), while the upright spars to which
they are attached are called " a derrick." At
the top of this " derrick " is a ** gin," which is
a revolving wheel, to which the ropes holding
the basket, "filled'* and "whipped," aro at-
tached. The process is thus one of manual
labour with mechanical aid. The basket having
been filled in the hold, the whippers correctly
guessing the time for the filling — for they
never look down into the hold — skip up the
" way," holding the ropes attached to the basket
and the gin, and pulling the ropes at two
skips, simultaneously, as they ascend. They
thus hoist the loaded basket some height out
of the hold, and, when hoisted so far, jump
down, keeping exact time in their jump,
from the topmost beam of the way on to the
deck, so giving the momentum of their bodily
weight to the motion communicated to the
basket While the basket is influenced by
this motion and momentum, the basket-
man, who is stationed on a plank flung across
the hold, seizes the basket, runs on with it
(the gin revolving) to ** the boom," and shoots
the contents into the weighing-machine. The
boom is formed of two upright poles, with a
33d
lONDOy LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOB.
oross-pole attached by way of step, on to which
the basket-man vaults, and rapidly revertung
the bosket, empties it. This process is very
quickly cllV^cted, for if the basket-man did not
avail himself of the swing of the basket, the
feat would be almost beyond a man's strength,
or, at least, he would soon be exhausted by it.
The machine is a large coal-scuttle or wooden
box, attAohed to a scale connected with 2i cwt.
'When the weight is rained by two deposits in
the machiuo, which hangs over the side of the
ship, it discharges it, by pulling a rope connect-
«d with it down a sliding wooden plane into the
barge below. The machine holds 2i cwt, and
80 the meter registers the weight of coal un-
laden. This process is not only remarkable
for its ctlerity but for another characteristic.
Sailors, when they have to *' pull away " to-
gether, generally time their pulling to some
rude chant ; tlieir *• Yo, heave, yo," is thought
not only to regidate but to mitigate the weight
of tlicir labour. The coalwhippers do their
work in porl'ect silence : they do it indeed like
work, and hard work, too. The basket-man
and the meter are equally silent, so that no-
thing is heard but the friction of the ropes,
the discharge of the coal from tlie basket into
the machine, and from the machine into the
barge. 'Ihe usual amount of work done by
the whippenj in a day (but not as an aver-
age, one day with another) is to unload, or
whip, ninety-eight tons! To whip one ton,
sixteen I>nsketfuls ore retinired : so that to
whip a single ton these men jump up and
down 14-t ifet : for a day's work of ninety,
eight tons, they jump up and down 13,0H8
feet, more in some instances ; for in the
largest ship tlie way has five steps, an<l ten
men are employed. The coalwhippera, there-
fore, raise \\ cwt very nearly four miles high,
or twice as high as a balloon ordinarily mounts
iu the air : and, in addition to this, the cool-
whippers themselves ascend very nearly i\
mile pei'pendicidai'ly in the course of the day.
On sonu.' days they whip upw»irds of l/)0 tons
— 200 have been whipped, when double this
labour must bo gone tlirt>ugh. The ninety-
eight tons take about seven hours. The
basket-man's work is the most critical, and
accidents, from his falling into tlie hold, are
not very unfreqnent. The complement of men
for the unlading of a vessel Is, as 1 have said,
nine : four in the hold, four whippers, and the
basket-man — the meter forms a tenth, but he
acts independently of the others. They seldom
work by candlelight, and, whenever possible,
avoid working in very bad weather ; but the
merchant, as I have shown, has great power
in regulating their labour for his own con-
Tenience. The following statement was given
to me by a coalwhipper on board this vessel :—
" We should hke better wages, but then we
have enemies. Now suppose you, sir, are a cool-
merchant, and this gentleman here freights
a ship of the captain — you underst-ond me?
The man who freights the ships that way is
paid, by the captain, ninepence a-ion, for a
gang of nine men, such as you've seen — nine
coalwhippera — but these nine men, you under-
stand me, are paid by the merchant (or buyer)
only eightpence^a ton; so that by eveiyUm
he clears a penny, without any labour or
trouble whatsomever. I and my fellows is
dissatisfied, but can't help ourselves. This
merchant, too, you understand me, finds there's
rather an opening in the Act of Parliament
about whippers. By employing a man as his
servant on his premises for fourteen days,
he's entitled to work as a coalwhipper. We
call such made whipper * boney tides.' There's
lots of them, and plenty more would be made
if we was to turn rusty. I've heard, yoa under-
stand me, of driving a coach through an Act of
Parliament, but here they drive a whole fleet
through it."
The coalwhipx)ers all present the same aspect
— they ore all Uock. In summer, when the men
strip more to their work, perspiration causes the
coal-dust to adhere to the skin, and blackness
is more than ever the rule. All about the ship
partakes of the grininess of the prevailing hue.
The soils are black ; the gilding on the figure-
head of tlie vessel becomes blackened, and the
very visitor feels his complexion soon grow
sable. The dress of the whippers is of every
description ; some have fustian jackets, some
have sailors' jackets, some loose great coats,
some Guernsey frocks. Many of them work
in strong shirts, which once were white with
a blue stripe: loose cotton neckerchiefs are
generally worn by the whippers. All have
black hair and block whiskers — no matter
what the original hue ; to the more stubbly
beards and moustachios the coal-dust adheres
freely between the bristles, and may even be
seen, now and then, to glitter in the light
amidst the hair. The barber, one of these
men told me, charged nothing extra for shav-
ing him, although the coal-dust mast be a
formidable tiling to tlie best^tempered razor.
In approacliing a coal-ship in the river, the
side has to be gained over barges bing along-
side— tlie coal crackling under the \isitor'8
feet He must cross tliem to reach a ladder
of very i)rimitive construction, up wliich the
deck is to be reached. It is a jest among the
Yorkshire seamen that every thing is black in
0 collier, especially the soup. When the men
aic at work in whipping or filling, the only
spot of white discernible on their hands is a
portion of the nails.
There are no specific hours for the paj-ment
of these men : they are entitled to their mo-
ney as soon as their work ta reported to be
completed. Nothing can be better than the
way in which the whippers are now paid.
The basket-man enters the office of the pay-
clerk of the coal commission at one door, and
hands over an a^oining counter an amount
of money he has received from the ci^^taio.
The pay-clerk ascertains that the nmomitis
correct. He then divides the sum into nine
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
939
portions, and, tonching a spring to open a
door, he cries out for " Gang such a number."
The nine men, who, with many others, are in
attendance in rooms provided for them ad-
jacent to the pay-office, appear immediately,
and are paid offi I was present when nine
whippers were paid for the discharge of 36;H
tons. Tlie following was the work done and
the remuneration received : —
Day. Tons.
Dec. Uth 1st a.*)
„ 15th 2nd 50
Sunday intervenes.
„ 17th 3rd 84
„ 18th 4th US
„ 19th 5th 90|
30.3i
These 363J tons, at 8</. per ton, realized to
each man, for five days' work, 1/. 6«. 4^<£. ;
105. of which had been paid to each as
subsistence money during the progress of
the work. In addition to the work so paid
to each, there was deducted a farthing in
every shilling as office fees, to defray the
eipense9 of the office. From this furthing
reduction, moreover, the basket-mnn is paid
]{</. in the pound, as commission for bringing
the money from the captain. Out of the
Slim to be dixided on the occasion I specify
there was an indivisible fraction of l\d.
This, as it cannot be shared among nine
men, goes to what is called ^ The Fraction
Fund,** which is established for the relief of
persons suffering from accidents on board
ooal-ships. These indivisible fractions realize
between 30/. and 40/. yearly.
Connected with the calling of the whippers
I may mention the existence of the Purbiieu.
These are men who carry kegs of malt liquor
in boats, and retail it afloat, ha\'ing a license
from the Waterman's Company to do so. In
each boat is a small iron grating, containing
a fire, so that any customer can havo the
chill off, should he require that luxury. The
purlman, riugs a bell to announce his visit
to the men on board. There are several
pnrlmeu, who keep rowing all day about the
ooal fleet; they are not allowed to sell spirits.
In a fog the glaring of the fire in the purl-
men's boots, discernible on the river, has a
curious effect, nothing but the fire being
visible.
I was now desirous of obtaining some in-
fbtmation from the men collectively. Ac-
cordingly I entered the basket-men's waiting-
room, where n large number of thera were
" biding their turn ; '* and no sooner had I
made my appearance in the hall, and my
object becamo known to the men, than a
rush was made firom without, and the door
was obliged to be bolted to prevent tho over-
crowding of the room. As it was, the place
was crammed so full, that tho light was com-
pletely blocked by the men piled up on the
seats and lockers, and standing before the
windows. The room was thus rendered so
dark that I was obliged to have the gas
lighted, in order to see to take my notes ; 1
myself was obliged to mount the opposite
locker to take the statistics of the meeting.
There were eighty-six pn.»sent. To show
how many had no employment whatever last
week, forty-five hands were held up. One had
had no employment for a fortnight; twenty-
four no work for eight days. Of those who
had worked during the previous week, eight
had received 20*.; sixteen between 15*. and
seventeen between 1()«. and 1 5». ; ten between
5». and IO5. ; one had received under 5». ;
twelve had received nothing. The average of
employment as to time is this: — None are
employed for thirty weeks during the year;
all for twenty.five weeks or upwards, reaUzing
12*. perhaps, yeariy, per week — so many of
the men said; but the office returns show
Is. l\d. per day as the average for the last
nine months. "Waterage" costs the whipper
an average of 6</. a-week the year through.
"Waterage" means the conveyance from tho
vessels to the shore. Fourteen of tho men
had wives or daughters who work at slop
needlework, the husbands being unable to
maintain the family by their own labour. A
coalwhipper stated that there were more of
the wives of the coalwhippers idle, because
they couldn't get work, than were at work.
All the wives and daughters would have
worked if they could have got it. " AVhy,
your honour," one man said, " we are better
off in this office than under tho old system.
Wo were then compulsory drunkards, and
often in debt to a publican after clearing tho
ship." The men employed generally spent
12.«. to 15s. a-week. Those unemployed had
abundant credit at the publican's. One man
said, ** I worked for a publican who was also
a butcher; one week I had to pay 9s. for
drink, and lis. for meat, and he said I hadn't
spent sufficient. I was ono of his constant
men." At the time a ship was cleared, the
whipper had often nothing to take home.
** Nothing but sorrow," said one. The publican
swept all ; and some publicans would advance
2s. M, towards the next job, to allow a man
to live. Many of the whippers now do not
drink at all. The average of the drinking
among the men , when at hard work, does not
exceed three half-pints a-day. The grievances
that once afflicted the coalwhipper, are still
felt by the ballast-men. Tho men all stated
the fact as to the 0</. allowed, and the Sd. per
ton paid for whipping. They all represented
that a lighterman, engaged by tho gas com-
panies, was doing them great iiyury, by em-
ploying a number of ' bonafides,' and taking
the best ships away from the regular office,
and giving them to the * bonafides ' who "whip"
the vessel at a lower rate of wages — about
6</. a-ton. He is connected with a beer-shop,
and the men are expected to buy hia beer.
240
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
If this man gets on with his system, (all this
the men concurred in stating,) the bod state
of things prevailing under the publican's ma-
nagement might be brought bock. Sixteen
years ago each whipper received li\d, per
ton, prices steady, and the men in union.
** If it wasn't for this office," one man said,
" not one man who worked sixteen years ago
would be alive now." The Union was broken
up about twelve years ago, and prices fell and
fluctuated down as low as 6<^., and even b\d.,
sometimes rising and falling l|d. a- week. The
prices continued fluctuating until the present
office was established, in 1844. The ship-
owners and merchants agreed, at the com-
mencement of the office, to give the whippers
9d, a-ton, and in three months reduced it
to 8if. The publicans, it was stated, formed
themselves into a compact body for the pur-
pose of breaking down the present system,
and they introduced hundreds of fresh hands
to undersell the regular workers. In 1847
wages rose again to Qd.\ the whippers ap-
pealing to the trade, urging the high price of
provisions, and their appeal being allowed.
This 0</. a-ton continued until the 1st of June
last. At that time the * bonafides ' were gene-
rally introduced, and greatly increased, and
Setting three times the work the regular men
id, they ^the regular men) consented again
to lower the prices. The * bonafides' are no
better off than the regular hands ; for though
they have much more work they have less
per ton, and have to spend more in drink.
The coadwhippers represented themselves as
benefited by the cheapness of provisions.
"With dear provisions they couldn't, at their
present earnings, live at aU. The removal of
the backing system had greatly benefited
the whippers. On being asked how many had
things in pawn, there was a general laugh,
and a cry of ** All of us." It is common to
pawn a coat on Monday and take it out on
Saturday night, paying a month's interest
One man said, ** I have now in pawn seven
articles, all wearing apparel, my wife's or my
own, firt>m 15f. down to 0(f." Four had in
pawn goods to the amount of 5/. and up-
wards ; five to 4^ ; six to 3/. ; thirteen to 2/. ;
thirteen to 1/. ; under \l. nineteen ; five had
nothing in pawn. When asked if all made a
practice of pawning their coats during the
week, there was a general assent. Some
could not redeem them in time to attend
church or chapel on a Sunday. One man
said, that if all his effects were burnt in his
absence, he would lose no wearing apparel.
** Our children, under the old system, were
totally neglected," they said ; " the public-
house absorbed everytliing." Under that sys-
tem as many as 500 of the children of coal-
whippers were transported ; now that has en-
tirely ceased ; those charged with crime now
were reared under the old system. " The
legislature never did a better thing than to
emancipate us," said the man ; " Uiey have
the blessing and prayers of ourselves, our
wives, and children."
After the meeting I was furnished with the
following accounts of a basket-man, of which
I have calculated the averages .*^
Fint Quarter.-^Januarif 2, 1840, to March 2&
Employed . • • • • .50 days
Delivered 2570^^ tons
Amount earned at Od, per ton . J£10 15 2(
Deduct expenses of office 4m, dd. \ a io in
Ditto waterage . . 8*. 4^./ " " ^"
£\0 2 4^
Average weekly earnings about . 0 16 6
Second Quarter, — April 7 to June 30.
Employed 44 days
Delivered 2600 tons
Amount earned at Oi. per ton £iQ 10 &
Deduct waterage . • 7f . 4<i. 1 ^ -n ^
. 4*. 4rf. I " " ®
jeo 12 0
Office expenses
Average weekly earnings . 0 15 H
Tldrd Quarter^ Jitlg 4 to Septtmhtr %L
Employed • • • . • 42 dflQft
Delivered 2485 ton*
Amount earned at 8J. per ton . £0 4 4|
Deduct waterage • 7*. Orf. \ aa ia mi
Office expenses • 8«. Vd^d,] *^ *" ^^
Je8 IS H
Average weekly earnings • 0 14 A
FouHh Quarter-'Oct. 4 to Dec. 20.
. 40 da^
2858itoii8
Amount earned at Qd, per ton . JE9 16 4f
Deduct waterage . . 8s. 2d. \ o 12 Sft
Office expenses . .45. IfJ.) ^* *'
X9 4 1
Employed
Delivered
Average weekly earnings . 0 14 1{
First Quarter .... iBlO 2 4)
Second Quarter . . . • 0 10 0
Third Quarter . . • . 8 Id 6)
Fourth Quarter . • • • 0 4 1
£37 19 0
Average weekly earnings . 0 14 6
Employed — ^First Quarter . . 50 days.
Second Quarter . 44 „
Third Quarter . 42 „
Fourth Quarter . 49 ,»
185 days.
Idle . . 180 days.
. ZOlTDOy LABOUR AND THE LOXDON POOR,
241
SscoND .Account.
Coalwhiffen,
Employed
Delivered
Amoant enmed at 9tf. per ton
Deduct waterage
103 days
. n^l^ tons
1 12 2
£A^ 3 d|
Ayerage weekly earnings . 0 17 4^
Thxbd AccorNT.
Employed .... 108 days
Delivered 0874^ tons
Amoant earned .... £37 lU 0
Deduct waterage . ... 180
Grosa earnings
jeso 11 0
Average weekly earnings . 0 14 0^
The above accounts are ratlier above than
uder the average.
I then proceeded to take the statement of
some of the different dastses of the men.
The first was a coalwhipper, whom the men
had selected as one knowing more about their
calling than tlie generality. He told me as
followb: —
" I am about forty, and am a married man
with a family of six children. I worked under
the old Bystem, and that to my sorrow. If I
kid been paid in money, according to the
work I then did, I could have averaged 305.
a-week. Instead of receivinp: that amount in
money, I was compelled to spend in drink
Vi». to 18«. per week, when work was good ;
and the publican even then gave me t)io
residue very grudgingly, and often kept me
fi'om eleven to twelve on Saturday night, be-
fore he would pay me. The consequences of
this system were, that I had a miserable home
to go to : I would often have fai'cd Newgate
as soon. My health didn't suffer, because 1
didn't drink the liquor 1 was forced to pay for.
I gave most of it away. The liquors were beer,
rum, and gin, all prepared tho night before,
adulterated shamefully for our consumption,
as we dursn't refuAo it,— dursn't even grumble.
The condition of my pfK>r wife and cbildren
was then most wretched. Now the tliinp: is
materially altered, thank God; my wife and
children can go to chapel at ceiiain times.
when work is pretty goml, and our tbinj^s are
not in pawn. By the slricte*)t economy, 1 can
do middling well — very Wfll whon compared
with what things were. When the new system
first came into operation, I felt almost in a
new world. I felt myself a fh?e man ; I wasn't
compelled to drink; my home assumed a
better aspect, and keeps it still. Lost Monday
night I received 10«. 7</. for my work (five
days) in the previous week. 1 shall now
(Thursday) have to wait until Monday next
before I can get to work at my buainosa.
Sometimes I get a job in idle times at the
docks, or otherwise, and ^ish 1 ooiiM <ret more.
I may make, one week with another, by odd
jobs, 1». a- week. Perhaps for montJis 1 can't
get a job. All that time 1 h.ive no choice but
to be idle. One week with anitthcr, the >'ear
through (at 8rf. i)cr ton ), I may r'jim 14*. The
great e\il is the uncerttiinty of Uio work. Wo
have all to take our rotation. This uncer-
tainty has this effect upon many of the men—
they are compelletl to live on credit One day
a num may receive IOj., and be idle for eight
days after. Conse(iueutly, we go to the dealer
where we have credit. The chandler supplies
me with bread, to be paid for next pay-day,
chfurging me a halfpenny a loaf more. A mui
with a wife and family of six children, as I
havo, will consume sixteen or seventeen quar-
tern loaves a- week ; consequently, he has to
pay 8(i. a- week extra on account of the irre-
gularity or uncertainty. My rotation would
come much oftener but for the backing system
and the ' bonafides.' I also pay the butcher
fVom a half^nny to a penny per pound extra
for credit when my family requires meat,
sometimes a bit of mutton, sometimes a bit of
beef. I leave that to the wife, who does it
with economy. I this way pay the butcher ^d.
a-weok extra. The additional cost to me of
the other articles, cht.'ose, butter, soap, &o.,
which I get on credit, will be Orf. a- week.
Altogotlier that will be 3/. 18». a-year. My
rent for a littlo house with two nice little
rooms is 3«. per week ; so that the extra charge
for credit would just pay my rent Many coal-
whippers deal with tallymen for their wearing
apparel, and have to pay enormous prices.
1 have hail dealings with a tal]}-man, and suf-
fered for it, but for all that I must make appli-
cation for a supply of blankets from him for my
family this winter. I paid him 45s. for wearing
apparel — a shawl for my wife, some dresses
for the children, a blanket, and other thing^.
Their intrinsic value was 30f . Many of us —
indeed most of us, if not all of us — are
always putting things in and out of the pawn-
shops. 1 know 1 have myself paid more than
lOir. a year for interest to the pawnbroker. I
know some of my fellow-workmen who pay
nearly 5/. a-year. I once put in a coat that
cost me 3/. Vis. I could only get ;K)». on it.
I was never able to redeem it, and lost it
The anii:leH lost by the coalwhippers pledged
at the pawnshop are three out of four. There
are 2000 coalwhippers, and I am sure that
each has 50s. in pawn, making 5000/. in a-year.
Interest may l>e paid on one half this amount,
2501 »/. Tho other half of the property, at least,
is lost As the pawnbroker only advances
one-third of the value, the lofts in the
forfeiture of the propeity is 75(K)/., nnd in
intei-est 25tK)/., making a total of 10,(Xm.»/. lost
every year, greatly through the uncertninty of
labour. A coolwliipper's life is one of debt
and Rtnij^ghs — it is a round of relievinir, ])ay-
ing, and credit We very rarely have a half-
242
LONDOX LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
penny in the pocket when we meet our credit.
If any system could possibly be discovered
which would render our work and our earn-
ings more certain, and our payments more
frequent, it would benefit us as much as we
have been benefited by the establishment of
the office."
I visited this man's cottage, and found it
neat and tidy. His children looked healthy.
The walls of the lower room were covered with
some cheap prints; a few old books, well
worn, as if well used, were to be seen ; and
everytliing evinced a man who was struggling
bravely to rear a large family well on small
means. I took the family at a disadvantage,
moreover, as washing was going on.
Hearing that accidents were frequent among
the class, 1 was anxious to see a person who
hud suffered by the danger of the calling.
A man was brought to me with his hand bound
up in a handkerchief. The sleeve of his coat
was ripped open and dangled down beside liis
injured arm. He walked lame ; and on my
inquiring wliether his leg was hurt, he began
pulling up his trousers and imlacing his boot,
to show me that it had not been properly sot.
He had evidently once been a strong, muscular
man, but little now remained as evidence of
his physical power but the size of his bones.
He furnished me with the following state-
ment : —
**I was a coalwhipper. I had a wife and
two children. Four months ago, coming ofif
my day's work, my foot slipped, and I fell and
broke my leg. I was taken to the hospital,
and remained there ten weeks. At the time of
my accident I had no money at all by me, but
was in debt to the amount of lOt. to my land-
lord. I had a little furniture, and a few
clothes of myself and wife. While I was in
the hospital, I did not receive anything from
our benefit society, because I had not been
able to keep up my subscription. My wife and
children Uved while I was in the hospital by
pawning my things, and going from door to
door to every one she knowed to give her a bit
The men who worked in the same gang as
myself, made up 4^. 6</. for me, and that, with
two loaves of bread that they had from the
relieving officer, was all they got While I
was in the hospital the landlord seized for
rent the few things that my wife had not
pawned, and turned her and my two little
children into the street One was a boy three
years old, and the other a baby just turned
ten months. My wife went to her mother,
and she kept her and my little ones for three
weeks, till she could do so no longer. My
mother, poor old woman, was most as bad off
as we were. My mother only works on the
groimd, out in the country, at gardening. She
makes about Is, a-week in the summer, and
in tlie winter she has only Ot^ a-day to live
upon ; but she had at least a shelter for her
child, and she willingly shared that with her
daughter and her daughter's children. She
pawned all the clothes she hod, to keep them
from stoning ; but at lost everything was gone '
from the poor old woman, and then I got my
brother to take my family in. My brother
worked at garden-work, the same as xny
mother-in-law did. He made about 19s.
a-week in the summer, and about half t)iat
in the winter time. He had a wife and two
children of his own, and found it hard enough,
to keep them, as times go. But still he took
us all in, and shared what he hod with us,
rather than let us go to the workhouse. When
I was told to leave the hospital — ^which I was
forced to do upon my crutches, for my leg
was very bad still— my brother took me in
too. He had only one room, but he got in a
bundle of straw, for mo, and we lived and slept
there for seven weeks. He got credit f6r more
than a pound's worth of bread, and tea, and
sugar for us ; and now he can't pay, and the
man threatens to summon him for it After I
left my brother's, I came to live in the neigh-
bourhood of Wapping, for I thought I might
manage to do a day's work at coalwhippmgr
and I couldn't bear to live upon his little earn-
ings any longer — he could scarcely keep him-
se& then. At last I got a ship to deliver ; but
I was too weak to do the work, and in pulling
at the ropes my hands got sore, and festered
for want of nourishment" [He took the hand-
kerchief off and showed that it was covered
with plaster. It was almost white from de-
ficient circulation.] " After this I was obliged
to lay up again, and that's the only job of work
I've been able to do for these lost four months.
My wife can't do anything ; she is a delicate^
sickly little woman as well, and has the two
UtUe children to mind, and to look after me
likewise. I had one pcnnj-worth of bread this
morning. We altogether had half-a-qnartexn
loaf among the four of us, but no tea nor
coffee. Yesterday we had some bread, and
tea, and butter ; but wherever my wife got it
from I don't know. I was three days but a
short timo back without a taste of food."
[Here he burst out crying.] " I had nothing
but water that passed my lips. I had merely
a little at home, and that my wife and children
had. I would rather starve myself than let
them do so : indeed, Fve done it over and over
again. I never begged : I'll die in the streets
first I never told nobody of my life. The
foreman of my gang was the only one besides
God that knew of my miser}' ; and his wife
came to me and brought me money imd
brought me food, and himself, too, many a
time." [" I had a wife and five children of my
own to maintain, and it grieved me to my
heart," said the man who sat by, *! to see them
want, and I unable to do more for them."]
*' If any accident occurs to any of us who are
not upon the society, they must be as bad off
as I am. K I only had a little nourishment
to strengthen me, I could do my work again ;
but, poor as I am, I can't get strength to do
it, and not being totally incapacitated from
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
248
resuming my. kbonr, I cannot get any
assistance from the superannuation fund of
our men."
I told the man I wished to see him at his
oim home, and he and the foreman who had
brought hun to me, and who gave him a most
excellent character, led me into a small house
in a court near the Shadwell entrance to the
London Docks. When I reached the place I
found the room almost bare of fhmiture. A
bttby lay sprawling on its back on a few rags
beside tJie handful of fire. A little shoeless
boy, with only a Ught washed-out frock to
eoTer him, ran shyly into a comer of the room
as we entered. There was only one choir in
the room, and that had been borrowed down
stairs. Over the chimney hung to dry a few
ragged infant's chemises that had been newly
wasJied. In front of the fire, on a stool, sat
the thinly* clad wife ; and in the comer of the
apartment stood a few old tubs. On a line
above these were two tattered men's shirts,
hanging to dry, and a bed was thrown on
some boxes. On a shelf stood a physic-bottle
that the man had got from the parish doctor,
and in the empty cupboard was a slice of
bread — all the food, they said, they had in the
wozld, and they knew not where on earth to
loek for more.
I next wished to see one of the improvident
men, and was taken to the lodging of one who
made the following statement : —
**I have been a coalwhipper for twenty
years. I worked imder the old publican's
system, when the men were compelled to
insk. In those days I8«. didn't keep me in
drink. I have now been a teetotaler for five
years. I have the bit of grub now more regu-
lar than I had. I earn less than 13s. a- week.
I have four children, and have buried four.
My rent is 1». 6<i." [" To-night," interrapted
the wife, " if ho won't part with his coat or
boots, he must go without his supper."] *' My
wife," the man continued, " works at bespoke
work — stay -making, but gets very little work,
and so earns very little— perhaps 1«. Crf. a
week."
This Cimily resided in a wretched part of
Wopping, colled, appropriately enough, "the
Kuins." Some houses hove been pulled down,
and so an open space is formed at the end of a
narrow airless alley. The wet stood on the
pavement of the dley, and the cottage in
which the whipper I \isited lived, seemed with
another to have escaped when the other houses
were pulled down. The man is very tall, and
almost touched the ceiling of his room when
he stood upright in it. The ceiling was as
wet OS a newly- washed floor. The grate was
fireless, the children barefoot, and the bed-
stead (for there was a bedstead) was bed-
less, and all showed cheeriess poverty. The
dwelling was in strong contrast with that
of the provident whipper whom I have de-
scribed.
The Coalbaceebs.
I CONCLUDE with the statement of a coal-
backer, or coalporter — a class to which the
term coolheaver is usually given by those who
are unversed in the mysteries of the caUing.
The man wore the approved fantail, and weU-
tarred short smock-frock, black velveteen knee
breeches, dirty white stockings, and lace-up
boots.
"I am a coolbacker," he said. "I have
been so these twenty-two years. By a coal-
backer, I mean a man who is engaged in car-
rying coals on his back from ships and craft
to the waggons. We get il\d. for every fifth
part of a ton, or lUrf. per ton among five men.
We carry the coals in sacks of 2 cwt., the
sack usually weighs from 14 lbs. to 20 lbs., so
that our load is mostly 238 lbs. We have to
carry the load from the hold of the ship, over
four barges, to the waggon. The hold of a
ship is from sixteen to twenty feet deep. We
carry the cools this height up a ladder, and
the ship is generally from sixty to eighty feet
from the waggon. This distance wo have to
trovel over planks, with the sacks on our
backs. Each man will ascend this height and
trovel this distance about ninety times in a
day ; hence he will Ufl himself, with 2 cwt.
of coals on his bock, 1400 feet, or upwards of
a quarter of a mile high, which is three times
the height of St Paul's, in twelve hours.
And besides this, he will travel 6300 feet, or
1^ miles, carrying the same weight as he goes.
The labour is very hord — ^there are few men
wlio can continue at it." My informant said
it was too much for him ; he had been obliged
to give it up eight months back; he had over-
strained himself at it, and been obliged to lay
up for many months. ** I am forty-five years
of age," he continued, *< and have as many as
eight children.- None of them bring me in a
sixpence. My eldest boy did, a little while
back, but his master failed, and he lost his
situation. My wife made slop-shirts at a
penny each, and could not do more than three
a-doy. How we have lived through all my ill-
ness, I cannot say. I occasionally get a littlo
job, such as mending the hots of my fellow-
workmen : this would sometimes bring me in
about 2s. in the week, and then the parish
allowed four quartern loaves of bread and
2«. Qd. a-week for myself, wife, and eight chil-
dren. Since I have overstrained myself, I
have not done more than two days' work alto-
gether. Sometimes my mates would give me
an odd seven tons to do for them, for I was
not able to manage more." Such accidents as
overstraining are very common among tho
coalbockers. The labour of carrying such a
heaN'y weight from tlie sliip's hold is so exces-
sive, that after a man turns forty he is con-
sidered to be past his work, and to be very
liable to such accidents. It is usually reck-
oned that the strongest men cannot last more
244
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
than twenty years at the business. Many of
the heartiest of the men arc knocked up
through the bursting of blood-vessels and
other casnaities, and even the strongest can-
not continue at the labour three days togetlier.
After the second day's work, they are obliged
to hire some unemployed mate to do the work
for them. The coalbackers work in gangs of
five men, consisting of two shovel-men and
three backers, and are employed to deliver the
ship by the wharfinger. Knch gang is paid
ll^rf. per ton, which is at the rate of )l\d. per
ton for each of the five men. The {Tft»o ^'il^
do from thirty to forty tons in the course of
the day. The length of the day depends upon
the amount of work to be done, according to
the wharfinger's orders. The coalbackers
are generally at work at five o'clock in the
morning, winter and summer. In the winter
time, they have to work by the light of large
fires in hanging coldrrms, which they coll
bells. Their day's work seldom ends before
seven o'clock in the evening. They are paid
every night, and a man after a hard day's
work will receive 0«. Strong, hearty men, who
are able to follow up tho work, can earn from
25«. to *iOji. per week. But the business is a
fluctuating one. In the summer time there
is little or nothing to do. The earnings during
the slack season are about one half what they
are during the brisk. Upon an average, their
earnings ore 1/. a- week all the year round.
The class of coalbackers is supposed to con-
sist of about 1500 men. They have no pro-
vident or benefit society. Between seventeen
and eighteen years ago, each gang used to
have Is. (\\d. per ton, and about a twelvemonth
afterwards it foil to the present price of \\\d,
I>er ton. About six weeks back, the merchants
made an attempt to take off the odd farthing ;
the reason assigned was the cheapness of pro-
\isions. They nearly carried it; but the
backers formed a committee among them-
selves, an<l ojiposed tho reduction so strongly
that tho idea was abandoned. The backers
are paid extra for sifting, at the rate of 2d.
per sack. For this office they usually employ
a lad, pn\'ing him at the rate of 10«. ])er week.
ITpon this they will usually clear from 'ix. to
4*. per week. The most injurious part of the
backer's work is carrj-ing from the ship's hold.
That is what they object to most of all, and
consi<lcr tliey get the worst paid for. They do
n groat injury to the coahvhippers, and the
baclcers say it would be as great a benefit \o
themselves as to tho coalwhippers, if the sys-
tem was done away with. By bringing the
ships np aloni?side tho wharf, the merchant
saves tho expense of whipping and hghtering,
tr)gether with tho cost of barges, <^-c. Many
of the bnckt'i-s are paid at the public-house ;
the whai-fingcr gives them a note to receive
their daily earnings of the publican, who has
the money from the merchant. Often the
backers are kept waiting an hour at the pub-
lic-house ior their money, and they have credit
through the day for any drink they may
choose to csdl for. While waiting, they mostly
have two or three pots of beer before they arc
paid; and the drinking once commenoed,
many of them return home drank, with only
half tlieir earnings in their pockets. There is
scarcely a man among the whole class of
backers, but heartily wishes the system of
payment at the public-house may l>e entirely
abolished. Tho coalbackers ore mostly an
intemperate class of men. This arises chiefly
fr«)m the extreme labour and tlic over-exertion
of tho men, the violent perspiration and the
intense thirst produced thereby. Immediately
a pause occui-s in their work, they fly to the
public-house for beer. One eoalbacker made
a regular habit of drinking sixteen half-pints
of beer, with a pennyworth of gin in eaeh»
before breakfast every morning. The sum
spent in drink by the * moderate * men varies
fnDm 9s. to 1:2*. per week, and the immoderate
men on tho average spend 15». a- weak.
Hence, assuming the class of coalbackers to
be 2000 in number, and to spend only 10*.
a- week in drink each man, the sum that would
be annually expended in malt liquors and
spirits by the class would amount to no less
than 5'.>,000/. The wives and children of the
coalbackers are generally in great distress.
Sometimes no more than one quarter of the
men's earnings is taken home at night.
*• When I was moderate inclined,*' said one
of them to me, ** I used to have a glass of
mm the first thing when I came out of a
morning, just to keep the cold out — that
might be as early as about five o'clock in
the morning, and about seven o'clock I
should want half a pint of beer with gin in it»
or a 1 int without After my work I should
be warm, and feel mjrself dry ; then I should
continue to work till breakfast-time ; then I
should have another half pint witli gin in it,
and so I should keep on through the day,
having either some beer or gin every two
hours. I reckon that unless a man spent
about \s. Qd. to 25. in drink, he wonld not be
able to continuo his labour through the day.
In the evening, he is tired with his work, and
being kept at the public-house for his pay, he
begins drinking there, and soon feels uiwil.
ling to move, and he seldom does so until all
his wages ore gone." My informant tolls me
that he thinks the class would be much im-
proved if the system of paj-ing the men at the
public-house was done away, and tho men
paid weekly instead of daily. The hard
drinking ho thinks a necessity of tlie hard
labour. Ho has heard, he says, of coalbackers
being teetotalers, but none were able to keep
the pledge beyond two months. Iftliey drink
water and cotlee, it will rather increase than
quench their thirst Nothing seems to quench
tho thirst of a hard-working man so well as
ale.
** The only difference between the pay of the
baskctman and the whipper is the l\d. in the
J
. LONJH>N I*ABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
94A
poimd whiok the fonner zcoeiTes for ctirying
tbe money ttam the captain of the ship to the
derk of the pay-office. He has also tor this
fiim to keep a correct aooount of the work
done by the men eveiy day, and to find secu-
rity for his honesty to the amount of 10/. To
obtain this, they luually pay 2s. Gd. aycar to
the Guarantee Society, and they prefer doing
this to seeking the secority of some baker or
pnldican in the neighbourhood, knowing that
if they did so, they would be expected to
become customers of the parties."
I now resume my inquiry whether stimu-
lating drinks are necessary for the pcrform-
anee of scTere labour.
I have already published the statement of a
ooalbacker, who declared that it was an absolute
necesai^ of that kind of labour that the men
engaged iu backing coals from the hold of a
ship should, though earning only I/, per week,
spend at least 12s. weekly in beer and spirits,
to stimulate them for their work. This sum,
the man assured me, was a moderate allow-
ince, for 16t. was the amount ordinarily cs-
pmded by the men in drink every week. Now
if this quantity of drink be a necessity of the
ctlling, it follows that the men pursuing tlic
severest labour of all— doing work that cripples
the strongest in from twelve to twenty years
— are the worst paid of all labourers, their
•etnal clear gains being only from Os. to 85.
per week. Tliis struck me as being so tt^rrible
a state of things that I could hardly believe it
to be true, though I was assured by several
ooalwhippers who were present on the occasion,
that the coalbaoker who had mode the statc-
BteDt had in no way exaggerated the account
of the sufferings of his fellow-workraen. I
determined, nevertheless, upon inquiring into
the qoestion myself, and ascertaining, by the
testimony and experience of different classes
of individuals engaged in this, the greatest
labour, perhaps, pexformed by any men, whe-
ther drink was really a necessity or luxury to
the working man.
Accordingly, I called a meeting of the coal-
whippert, that I might take their opinion on
the subject, when I found that out of eighty
individuals only four were satisfied that fer-
mented liquors could bo dispensed with by tlie
Itbouring classes. I was, however, still far
from sat^ed upon the subject, and I deter-
niined, as the question is one of the greatest
importance to Uie working men, — being more
intimately connected with their welfare, phj-si-
caL intellectual, and moral, than any other, — to
give Uie subject my most patient and imbiassed
consideration. I was anxious, without advoca-
ting any opinion upon the subjects to collect
the sentiments of the coal labourers themselves ;
and in order that I might do so as impar-
tially as possible, I resolved upon seeing —
1st, such men as were convinced that stimu-
lating liquors were necessary to the laboiuing
man in tlie performance of his work ; 2ndly,
inch men as once thought differently, and, in-
deed, had once taken the pledge to abstain
from the use of all fermented liquors, but had
been induced to violate their vow in conse-
quence of their health having suffered; and
ardly, such men as had taken the pledge and
kept it without any serious injury to their con-
stitutions. To carry the subject out with the
fulness and impartiality that its importance
seemed to me to demand, I further determined
to prosecute the inquiry among both classes
of conl labourers — the coolwhippers and coal-
backers ns well. The result of these inves-
tigations I shaU now subjoin. Let me, how-
ever, in tho first place, lay before the reader
the following
CosrPAiunvE Table of Drunkenness of the
Dn-TERENT TRADES IN LoNDON.
Above the Average.
Button-m.ikors, one individual iu cveiy 7*2
Tool -nmkei-s KM
Sun-eyoi-s ll«s
Paper-makers and Stainers . . . 12*1
Brass-founders 12*4
Gold-beaters 14*5
Millers 160
French Polishers 17-3
Cutlers 18-2
Corkcutters 10*7
Musicians 2'2-0
Opticians 22*3
Bricklayers 22'0
Labourera ..•,.. 22*8
General and Marine-store Dealers . 23*2
Brushmakers 24*4
Fishmongers • . • • . 28*2
Coach and Cabmen • • • .28*7
Glovers 29*4
Smiths 29-5
Sweeps 32*2
Hairdressers • • . . . 42*3
Tailors 43*7
Tinkers and Tinmen . . . .45*7
Saddlers 49*3
Masons. ...... 490
Glassmakers, dbc 50*5
Curriers 50*0
Printers 52*4
Hatters and Trimmers .... 531
Carpenters 63*8
Ironmongers 50*0
Dyers 50*7
Sawjers 58*4
Turners 59*3
Engineers 69*7
Butchers 03-7
Laundresses 03.8
Painters 00*1
Brokers 077
Medical Men 08*0
Brewers 70*2
Clerks 734
Shopkeepers 'J7-1
Shoemakers 780
Coaohmakeis • • • • . 78*8
346
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
Milliners . . . .1 in every 81-4
Bakers 820
Pawnbrokers 84*7
Gardeners 97-6
Weavers 99-3
Drapers 102*3
Tobacconists 103*4
Jewellera 104*5
Artists 100*3
Publicans J 08*0
Average . . 113-8
Below the Average,
Caners nnd Gilders . • • . 125*2
Artificial Flower Makers . . 128*1
Bookbinders 148*6
Greengrocers 157*4
Watchmakers 204-2
Grocers 226-0
Clockinakers 280*0
Parish officers 373-0
Clergymen • 4170
Servants 585*7
The above cnlcnlations have been made from
the Official Returns of the Metropolitan Po-
lice. The causes of the different degrees
of intemperance here exhibited, I leave to
otliers to discover.
After the meetinj( of coalwluppers just de-
«cribcd, I requested some of the men who
had expressed the various opinions respecting
the necessity for drinking some kind of fer-
mented liquor during their work to meet me,
■so that I might take down their sentiments
on the subject more fully. First of all, came
two of the most intelligent, who believed
ipalt lijjuor to be necessary for the pcrform-
tince of their labour. One was a basketman
or tireman, and the other an " up-and-dowu "
man, or whipper; the first doing the lighter,
and the second the heavier kind of work. The
basketman, who I afterwards discovered was a
"good Greek and Latin scholar, said : " If I have
anything like a hea\'y day's work to do, I con-
«idor three pints of porter a-day necessary.
W'c are not like other labouring men, having
on hour to dinner. Often, to save tide, we take
only ton minutes to our meals. One thing I
>vish to remark is, that what renders it neces-
•sarj- to have the three pints of beer in winter,
and two pots in summer, is the coal-dust
tirising from the work, which occasions great
thirst. In the summer time the basketman is
on the plank all day, and continually exposed
to the sun, and in the winter to the incle-
mency of tlie weather. What with the labour
and tlie heat, the perspiration is excessive.
A bafjketnian with a bad gang of men has no
sine<nire. In the summer he can wear neither
coat nor waistcoat ; vcr>' few can bear the hat
on the head, and tliey wear nightcaps instead.
The work is always done, in summer time, with
only the shirt and trousers on. The basket-
man never lakes olf his shirt, like the whippers.
The necessity for drink in the summer does
not arise so much firom the extent of the laboiir,
as from the irritation caused by the coal-dost
getting into the throat There is not so mneh
dust from the coals in the winter as in the-
simuner, the coals being more damp in wet
than in fine weather. It is merely the Uuret
that makes the drink requisite, aa f ar u the
basketman is concerned. Tea wonld allay the
thirst, but there is no opportunity of haring
this on board ship. If there were an oppor-
tunity of having tea at our work, the bai3cet-
man might manage to do with it as well as
with beer. Water I don't fancy, especially the
water of the river ; it is very impure, and at
the time of the cholera we were prohibited
from drinking it If we could get pure water,
I do not think it would do as well for as, espe-
cially in winter time. In winter time it would
be too cold, and too great a contrast to the
heat of the blood. It would, in my opinion,
produce stagnation in the circulation. We
have had instances of men dying suddenly
through drinking water when in a state of
excitement.** [He distinguishes between
excitement and perspiration: he calls the
basketman's laboiur an exciting one, and the
whipper's work a heating one.] ** The men
who died suddenly were whipi)er8. I never
heard of a basketman dying from drinking
cold water when at his work ; I don't think
they ever tried the experiment. The whippers
have done so through necessity, not through
choice. Tea is a beverage that I don't fimej,
and I conceive it to be equally expensive, so I
prefer porter. When I go off to my woric
early in the morning, I take about a pint of
coffee with me in a bottle, and warm it up on
board at the galley-fire for my breakfast; that
I find quenches my thirst for the time as wdl
porter. Porter would be too insipid the flnt
thing in the morning; I never drank oofflM
through the day while at my work, so I cannot
say what the effect would be. I drink porter
when at my work, not as giving me greater
strength to go through my labour, but merely
as a means of quenching my thirst, it being
as cheap as any other drink, with the excep-
tion of water, and less trouble to procure.
Water I consider dangerous at our work, but
I can't say that it is so fVom my own expe-
rience. I was in the hospital about seven
years ago, and the doctor there asked me how
many pints of beer I was in the habit of
drinking per day. This was before the office
was established. I told him, on the lowest
calculation, six or seven ; it was the case then
under the old system ; and he then ordered
me two pints of porter a-day, as I was reiy
weak, and he said I wanted a stimulus. I am
not aware that it b the habit of the publicans
to adulterate their porter with salt and water.
If such is the case, it would, without a doubt,
increase rather than diminish the thirst I
have often found that the beer sold by some
of the publicans tends more to create than
allay thirst I am confident, that if the working
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOB.
217
men genenlly knew that salt and water was
inTaziably mixed with the porter by the pub-
licans, they would no longer hold to the notion
that it could quench their thirst ; but, to con-
vince them of that, it would be almost neces-
Huy that they should see the publican
•dnlterafiing the leer with their own eyes.
If it really is the case that beer is adulterated
with salt and water, it must be both injurious
and heating to the labouring man. Some of
the men who are in the habit of drinking
porter at thdr work, very probably attribute
the thirst created by the salt and water in tlie
porter to the thirst created by the coal-dust or
the work, and continue drinking it from the
force of habit. The habit of drinking is doubt-
kasly the effect of the old system, when tbo
men were forced to drink by the publicans who
pidd them. A most miraculous change, and
one imparalleled in history, has been produced
by altering the old mode of employing and
paying the men. The reformation in the
morals and character of the men is positively
▼onderfbl. The sons are no longer thieves,
and the daoghters are no longer prostitutes.
Formerly it was a competition who could
drink the most, for ho who could do so got the
moat work. The introduction for a job was
inianahly, ' You know, Mr. So and So, I'm a
good drinking man.' Seeing the benefit that
ha* resulted from the men not drinking so
mtwh as formerly, I am of opinion that,
though I take my beer every day myself, a
great good would ensue if ihe men would
orink eTen less than they do now, and eat
move ; it would be more conducive to their
health and strength. But they have not the
iime ftuBility for getting food over their work
as there is for getting beer. You see, they can
hare credit for beer when they can't get a
morsel of food on trust Thei-e are no floating
bntchers or bakers, like there arc floating pub-
licans or purimen. If there were, and men
could have trust for bread and meat while at
thdr work on the river, I am sure they would
eat more and drink less, and be aU the better for
it. It would be better for themselves and for
their families. The great evil of the drink
is, that when a man has a little he often
wants more, and doesn't know whore to stop.
When he once passes the * rubi-can,' as I coll
it, he is loet. If it wasn't for this evil, I think
A pint or two of porter would make them do
their work better than either tea or water.
Our labour is peculiar. The air is always
full of coal-dust, and ever>' nen-e and muscle
of the body is strained, an<l every pore of the
body open, so that he requires somo drink
that will counteract the cold."
The next two that I saw were men who did
the heaviest work ; that is, ** up-and-down
men," or coalwliippers, as they are usually
called. They had both of them been tee-
totalers. One had been so for eight years,
and the otlier had tried it for three months.
One who stood at least six feet and a^half
high, and was habited in a long blue great
coat that reached to his heels, and made him
look even taller tlian lie was, said, — " I was
a strict teetotaler for many veurs, and I wisli
I could be so now. All Ih'ut time I was a
coalwhipper at the hea\iest work, and I have
made one of a gang that have dono as many
as 180 tons in one day. I drank no fer-
mented liquor the whole of the time ; 1 hod
only ginger-beer and milk, and that cost me
\s. \id. It was in the siunmer time. I didnt
* butf it' on that day; that is, 1 didn't tako
my shirt oflf. I did this work at the liei^'ont's
Canal ; and there was a little milk-shop close
on shore, and I used to nm there when I
was dry. I had about two quails of milk
and five bottles of ginger-beer, or about three
quarts of fluid altgether. I found that amount
of drink necessary. I perspired very vio-
lently; my shirt was wet through, and my
flannels wringing wet with the per3]»iraiion
over the work. The rule among us is, that
we do 28 tons on deck, and XJ8 tons filling
in the ship's hold. We go on in that way
throughout tlie day, spelling at every 28 tons.
The perspiration in the summer time streams
down our foreheads so rapidly, that it will oflcn
get into our eyes before we have time to
wipe it off". Tliis makes the eyes veiy sore.
At night, when wo get home, we cannot bear
to sit with a candle. The perspiration is of
a very briny nature, for I often taste it as
it runs down to my lips. We are often so
heated over our work that the perspiration
rims into the shoes ; and often, from the dust
and heat, jumping up and down, and tho
feet being galled with the small dust. I have
had my shoes full of blood. Tho thirst pro-
duced by our work is very excessive; it is
completely as if you had a fever upon you.
The dust gets into the throat, and very nearly
suffocates you. You can scrape the coal-dust
oflf the tongue with the teeth ; and do what
you will it is impossible to get the least
spittle into tho mouth. I have known tho
coal-dust to be that thick in a ship's hold,
that I have been unablo to see my mate,
though he was only two feet from me. Your
legs totter imder you, both before and after
you are a teetotaler. I was one of the
strongest men in tho business; I was able
to carry 7 cwt. on my bock for fifty yards,
and I could lift nine half-hundreds with my
right-arm. After finishing my day's work I
was like a child with weakness. When we
have done 14 or 28 tons, we generally stop
for a drop of drink, and then I have found
that anything that would wet my mouth
would revive me. Cold tea, milk, or ginger-
beer, were refreshing, but not so much as
a pint of porter. Cold water wouLl give a
pain in tho inside, so that a man would have
to lie down and be taken ashore, and, per-
haps, give up work altogether. Many a
man has been taken to the hospital merely
through drinking cold water over his work.
243
LONDON LABOUB AND THE LONDON POOM.
They havo complained of a weight and cold-
ness in the chest; they say it has chilled
the fat of the heart I can positively sUite,"
continued the man, " that during the whole
of eight years I took no fermented drink.
My usual drink was cold tea, milk, ginger-
beer, or coffee, whichever I could catch : tlie
ginger-beer was more lively than the milk;
but I believe I could do more work ui)on the
milk. Tea I found much better than coffee.
Cold tea was very refreshing ; but if I didn't
take it with me in a bottle, it wsisn't to be
had. I used to take a quart of cold tea with
me in a bottle, and make that do for me all
day, as well as I could. The ginger-beer was
the most expensive, and would cost me a
shilling, or more than that if I could get it.
The nulk would cost me sixpence or eight-
pence. For tea and coffco the expense would
be about twopence the day. But often I have
done the whole day's work without any diink,
because I would not touch beer, and then I
was more fit to be carried home than walk.
I have known many men scarcely able to
crawl up the ladder out of the hold, they were
80 fatigued. For myself, being a very strong
man, I was never so reduced, thank God.
But often, when I've got home, I've been
obliged to drink three pints of milk at a
stretch, before I could touch a bit of victuals.
As near as I can guess it used to cost me,
when at work, a shilling a-day for ginjrcr-
becr, milk, and other teetotal drinks. When
I was not at work my drink used to cost me
little or nothing. For eight years I stuck to
the pledge, but I found myself failing in
strength and health ; I foimd that I couldn't
go tlirongh a day's work as clever as I used
before I left off drink, and when first I was a
teetotaler. I found myself failing in every
inch of my carcase, my limbs, my body and
all. Of my own free-will I gave it up. I did
not do it in a fit of passion, but deliberately,
because I was fully satisfied that it was in-
juring my health. Shortly after taking the
pledge I found I could have more meat than
I iLsed to liave before, and I found that I
neither got strong nor weak upon it. After
about five years my appetite began to fail,
and then I found my strength leaving me;
80 I made up my mind to nJter the system.
When I returned to beer, I found myself
getting better in health and stronger didly.
Before I was a teetotaler I used to drink
heavy, but after teetotalism I was a temperate
man. I am sure it is necessary for a hard-
working man that he should drink beer. He
can't do liis work so well without it as he
can with it, in moderation. If he goes be-
yond his allowance he is better without any.
I have taken to drinking beer again within
the last twelve months. As long as a man
does not go beyond his allowance in beer,
his drink will cost him quite as much when
he is teetotaler as it will when he has not
taken the pledge. The difference between
the teetotal and fermented drinks I find to
be this : — ^When I drank milk it didn't make
me any liveher; it quenched my thirst, but
didn't give me any strength. But when I
drank a pint or a quart of beer, it did me no
much good after a day's labour, that after
drinking it I could get up and go to my work
again. This feeling would continue for a con-
siderable time; indeed, I think the beer is
much better for a hardrworking man than
any unfermented drink. I defy any man in
England to contradict me in what I say, and
that is — a man who takes bis reasonable
quantity of beer, and a fair share of food,
is much better with it than without."
Another man, who had been a teetotaler
for three months at one time, and seven years
at another, was convinced that it was impos-
sible for a hard-working man to do his work as
well without beer as with. '* He had tried it
twice, and he spoke from his own experience,
and he would say that a little — that is, two
pints, or three for a very hard day'a labour,—
would never hurt no man. Beyond that a
man has no right to go; indeed, anything
extra only makes him stupid. Under the old
system, I used to be obliged to buy rum; and,
over and over again, I've had to pjSj fifteen-
pence for half-a-pint of rum in a ginger-beer
bottle ; and have gone into the street and sold
it for sixpence, and got a steak with the
money. No man can say drink has mined
my constitution, for I've only had two penny-
worth of antibilious pills in twenty-five years ;
and I will say, a little beer does a man' more
good than harm, and too much does a man
more harm than good.**
The next two *' whippers " that I saw were
both teetotalers. One had taken the pledge
eight months before, and the other four years ;
and they had both kept it strictly. One had
been cellarman at a public-house, and he siud,
" I neither take spruce nor any of the cor-
dials : water is my beverage at dinner." The
other had been an inveterate drunkard. The
cellarman is now a basketman, and the other
an up-and-down man, or whipper, in the same
gang. The basketman said, '* 1 can say tins
from my own experience, — that it is not ne-
cessary for a working man, doing the very
hardest labour, to drink fermented liquors. I
was an up-and-down man for two years, with-
out tasting a drop of beer or spirits. I havo
helped to whip 189 tons of coal in one day, with-
out any ; and that in the heat of summer. What
I had with me was a bottle of cocoa; and I took
with tliot plenty of steak, potatoes, and bread.
If the men was to take more meat and less
beer, they would do much better. It's a delu-
sion to think beer necessaiy. Often, the men
who say the beer is necessary will deliver a
ship, aye, and not half-a-dozen half-pints be
drank aboard. The injury is done ashore.
The former custom of our work— the compul-
sory system of drinking that we were under, —
has so imbedded the idea of drink in the men,
LONBON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
240
tfast flief fliink it is t0tnRl]7Deoes8a]7. It*8
not the lawt to be wondered at, that there's so
many dmdcBfuB anionic them* I do not
think we ahaH ever 'be able to nndo the habit
of drinking among the whippem in this gene-
ratkm. As far ae I am ooneerned, since I've
Veen ateelotader, Ihave enjoyed a more regular
stake of health than I nsed before. Now that
I am a basketraan, I drink only water with
in J finner ; and during my work I take no-
Anng. I -have got a ship in hands — going to
woik on Monday morning. I fihall have to
nm baekwards and forwards on a one-and-
twenty.foot plank, and deliver 800 tons
cf ooals: and I idiall do that upon water.
That man,** pointing to the tcot'jtaler who
•ccompanied him, ^'will be in it, and he'll
have to help to pull the coals twenty foot
above iho deck ; and hell do it all upon water.
When I was a coalwhipper mj'self, I used to
diink cocoa. I took it cold with mc of a
notning, and warmed it aboard. They pro-
phesied it would kill mo in a week; and I
snow it*8 done me everv- good iu life. I have
4lnmk water when I was a-working up-and-
down, -and when I was in the highest perspir-
ation, and never found it injure mc. It
aUays the thirst more than anything. If it
didnt allay the thirst I should want to drink
often : but if I take a drink of water from the
cask I ftud my thirst immediately qnenclicd.
Many of tlie men who drink beor will take a
drink of water aftenvards, because the beer
increases their thirst, and heats tliem. lliat,
I believe, is principally from the salt water in
it: in feet, it stands to reason, that if beer is
half brine it can't quench tliirnt. Ah I it's
thoddng stuff the purlin en make up for them
on the river. AVhen I was drinking beer at
my employment, I used seldom to exceed
throe pints of beer a-day : tliat is what I took
ftnboMnL "What I had on shore was not, of
course, to help me to do my labour. I know
fte beisr used to inflame my thirst, because
l'?e had to drink water after it <rv-er and over
igun. I never made a habit of drinking, —
oot since the establishment of tho office.
Previous to that, of course, I was obliged to
drink. I've got * jolly ' now and then, but I
Bever made a habit of it. It used to cost me
iboottwo shillings or two shillings and six-
pence a-week, on the average, for drink, at the
Qttenttoet; because I coul<iu*t atford more.
Sbce IVe taken the pledge, I'm sure it hasn't
cost me sixpence a-week. A teetotaler feels
leiB thirst than any other man. I don't know
*hat natural thiiTit is. except I've been eating
*slt provisions. I belong to a total abstinence
8ocioty, and there are obout a dozen coal-
whinpore, and about the sanje number of coal-
Wieni, members of it. Some liave been
total abstainers for twelve years, and ore Uving
Guesses that fermented drinks arc not n«>-
ceisary for working men. There are about
two hundred to two hundred and fifty coal-
^hippors, I have been given to underetand,
who are teetotalers. Those -eoalwhippen
who have been total abstainers for twelve
years, are not weaker or worse in health for
the want of beer." [This statement was de-
nied by a person present ; but -a gentleman,
who was intimately acquainted witii the whole
body, mentioned tiie names of several men
who had been, some ten years, and some up-
wards of twelve years, ^strict adherents to the
principles of teetctalism.] ** The great quan-
tity of drinking is carried on ashore. 1 should
say the men generolly drink twice as much
ashore as they do afloat. Those who dri^
beer are always thirsty. Through drinking
over their work, a tliirst is created aboard, which
they set to drinking, when ashore, to ollay;
and, after a hard day's labour, a vexy little
ON'orcomes a man. One or two pots of beer,
and the man is loth to stir. He is tired ; and
the drink, instead of refreshing liim, makes him
sleepy and heavy. The next morning afror
di-inkin;;? lie is thirstier still ; and then he goes
to work drinking again. Tiie perspiration
will start out of liim in large drops, like jMsas.
You will sec it stream down his face and his
hands, witli the coal-dust sticking to them,
just like as if he hod a pair of silk gloves on
him. It's a common saying with us, about
such a man, tliat • he's got the gloves on.* The
drunkards always perspire the most over their
work. The prejudice existing among the
men in favoiir of drink is such, that they be-
lieve they would die without it. I am quite
astonished to see such an improvement among
them as there is ; and I do think that, if the
cliTgymen of the neighbourhood did their
duty, and exerted themselves, the people
would be better still. At one time there were
as many as five hundred coalwhijipers total
abstainers; and the men were much better
clothed, and the homes and appearance of the
wliippers were much more decent. "What I
should do if I drank, I don't know. I pot 1/.
for clearing a sliip last week, and shan't get
any more till Monday night; and I have six
cliihlrcn and a wife to keep out of that. Fop
this last fortnight I have only made lOs. a-
weok, so I am sure I couldn't even afford a
shilling a-week for drink, without robbing my
family."
The second teetotaler, who had been an in-
votoi-ate drunkard in his time, stated as follows.
Like most of the cojdwhippers, he thought
once tliat he could not do his work without
beer. He used to drink as much as he could
p<»t. He averaged two pots at his work, and
when he come on shore he would liave two
pots more.
" He had been a coalwhipper for ujrwards
of twenty years, and for nineteen years and
three months <»f that time he was a hard
drinker, — a regular stiff 'un,'" said he; *' I
not only u<!t»d," he added, *' to got drunk, but
I taught my childitn to do so, — I hove got
sons as big as myself, coalbackers, and total
abstainers. Otteu I have gone home on
^X LXIX.
^:.o
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
a Sunday morning drunk myself, and found
two of my sons £unk, — they'd bo unable to
sit at the table. They were about fourteen
then, and when they went out with me I used
to teach them to take their littlo drops of neat
rum or gin. I have seen the youngest * mop
up ' his half-quartern as well as I did. Then
I was always thirsty ; and when I got up of a
morning 1 used to go stalking round to the
first public-house that was open, to see if I
could get a pint or a quartern. My mouth
was dry and parched, as if I had got a burning
fever. If I had no work that day I used to
sit in a public-house and spend all the money
I'd got. If I had no money I would go home
and raise it somehow. I would ask the old
woman to give me the price of a pint, or per-
haps the young ims were at work, and I was
pretty safe to meet them coming home. Talk
about going out of a Sunday ! I was ashamed
to be seen out. My clothes were ragged, and
my shoes would take the water in at one end
and let it out at the other. I keep my old
rags at homo, to remind mo of what I was — ^I
call them the regimentals of the guzzler. I
pawned everything I could get at. For ten or
twelve years I used a boer-shop regularly.
That was my house of call. Now my home is
▼eiy happy. All my children are teetotalers.
My sons arc as big as myself, and they are at
work carrying If cwt to 2 cwt. up a Jacob's
ladder, thirty- three steps high. They do this
all day long, and liave been doing so for the
last seven days. They drink nothing but
water or cold tea, and say they find themselves
tlie better able to do their work. Coalbacking
is about the hardest labour a man can per-
form. For myself, too, I find I am quite as
able to do my work without intoxicating drinks
as I was with them. There's my basketnian,"
said he, pointing to the other teetotaler, ** and
he can tell you whether what I say is true or
not. I have helped to whip 147 tons of coal
in the heat of summer. The other men were
calling for beer every time they could see or
hear a purlman, but I took nothing — I don't
think I perspired so much as they cUd. When
I was in the drinking custom, I have known
the perspiration run down my arms and legs
as if I* d been in a hot bath. Since I've taken
the pledge I scarcely perspire at all. I'll work
against any man that takes beer, provided I
have a good teetotal pill — that is, a good pound
of steak, with plenty of gravy in it. That's
the stuff to work upon — that's what the work-
ing man wants — plenty of it, and less beer,
and he'd beat a horse any day. I am satisfied
the working man can never be raised above
ids present position until he con give over
drinking. That is the reason why I am
sticking to the pledge, that I may be a living
example to my class that they can and may
work without beer. It has made my home
happy, and I want it to moke every other
workinff man's as comfortable. I tried the
principle of teetotalism first on board a steam-
boat. I was stoker, and we burnt 27 cwt»
of coals every hour we were at sea — thal'a
very nearly a ton and a-half per hour. There,
with the heat of the fire, we felt the effects of
drinking strong brandy. Brandy was tho
only fermented drink we were allowed. After
a time I tried what other stimulants we could
use. The heat in the hold, especially before
the fires, was awful. There were nine stokers
and four coal-trimmers. Wo found that the
brandy that we drank in the day made .us ill,
our heads ached when we got up in the morn-
ing, so four of us agreed to try oatmeal and
water as our drink, and we found that suited
us better than intoxicating liquor. I myself
got as fat as a bull upon it. It was recom-
mended to me by a doctor in Falmouth, and
we all of us tried it eight or nine voyages.
Some time after 1 left the company I went to
strong drink again, and continued at it till the
1 st of May last, and then my children's love
of drink got so dreadful that I got to hate
myself as being the cause of it But I
couldn't give up the drinking. Two of my
mates, however, urged me to try. On the Ist
of May I signed tlie pledge. I prayed to God
on the night I went to give me strength to
kee]p it, and never since have I felt the least
inclmation to return. When I had left off a
fortnight I found myself a great deal better ;
all the cramps that I had been loaded with
when 1 was drinking left me. Now I am
happy and comfortable at home. My wife's
about one of the best women in the world*
She bore with me in all my troubles, and now
she glories in my redemption. My children
love me, and we club all our earnings together,
and can always on Sunday manage a joint of
sixteen or seventeen pounds. My wife, now
that we are teetotalers, need do no woric;
and, in conclusion, I must say that I have
much cause to bless the Lord that ever I
signed the teetotal pledge.
" After I leave my work," added the teeto-
taler, " I find the best thing I can have to
refresh me is a good wash of my face and
shoulders in cold water. This is twice as
enlivening as ever I found beer. Once a
fortnight I goes over to Goulston - square,
Whitechapel, and have a warm bath. This ia
one of the finest things that ever was invented
for the working man. Any persons thai vse-
them don't want beer. I invited a coalwhiiiper^
man to come with me once. * How much does it
cost?' he asked. I told him, * A penny.* 'WelU*
he said, * I'd sooner have half-a-pint of beer..
I haven't washed my body for these twenty-
two years, and don't see why I should begin
to have anything to do with these new-fangled
notions at my time of life.' I will say, thai a
good wash is better for the working man than
the best drink."
The man ultimately made a particular re-
quest that his statement might conclude with
a verso that he had chosen from the Tempe-
rance Melodies : —
LOXDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
251
** And now we lovo the social cboer
Of the bright winter eve ;
We have no amse for sigh or tear,
We have no cause to grieve.
Our wives are clad, our children fed ;
Wo boast where'er wc go —
Twas all because we sigu'd the i»lcdgc,
A long, long time ago."
At the close of myintemew wiUi these men
I received from them an invitation to visit
them at their own houses whenever I should
think fit It was clearly their desire that I
should see the comforts and domestic ar-
rangements of their homes. Accordingly on
the morrow, choosing an hour when there
could have been no preparation, I called at
the lodgings of the first. I found the whole
family assembled in the back kitchen, that
served them for a parlour- As I entered the
room the mother was busy at work, washing
and dressing her children for the day. There
stood six little things, so young that they
seemed to he all about the same height, with
thoir faces shining with the soap and water,
and their cheeks burning red with the friction
of the towel. They were all laughing and
playing about the mother, who, with comb and
brush in hand, found it no easy matter to get
them to stand still while she made " the
parting.** First of all the man asked me to
step up-stairs and see the sleeping-room. I
vas much struck with the scrupulous cleanli-
oess of the apartment. The blind was as
white as snow, half rolled up, and fastened
with a pin. The floor was covered with
patches of different coloured carpet, showing
that they had been bought from time to time, and
tellmg how difficult it had been to obtain the
hixary. In one comer was a cupboard with
the door taken off, Uie better to show all the
tnmblers, teacups, and colourod-glass mugs,
that, with two decanters, well covered with
painted flowers, were kept more for ornament
than use. On the chimneypiece was a row
of shells, china shepherdesses, and lambs,
<uid a stuffed pet canary in a glass-case for a
centre ornament. Against the wall, surrounded
hy other pictures, hung a half-crown water-
colour drawing of the wife, with a child on
her knee, matched on the other side by the
hosband's likeness, cut out in black paper.
Pictnres of bright-colom-ed ducks and a print
of Father Moore the teetotaler completed the
coUectioD.
"You see," said the man, "we manages
pwtty well ; but I can assure you we has a
Wd time of it to do it at all comfortably. Me
And my wife is just as we stands — all our other
things are in pawn. If I was to drink I don't
blow what I should do. How others manage
>« to me a mystery. This will show you I
^peak the truth/' he added, and going to a
«^cretary that stood against the wall he pro-
duced a handfhl of duplicates. There were
seventeen tickets in all, amounting to 3/. Os. 0<2.,
^e highest sum borrowed being 10«. '* That'll
show you I don't like ray poverty to be known,
or I should have told you of it before. And
yet we manage to sleep clean ;" and he pulled
back the patchwork counteii)ano, and showed
me the snow-white sheets beneath. " There's
not enough clothes to keep us wjirm, but at
lesist they ore clean. Were obliged to give as
much as we can to the children. Cleanliness
is my i)vife's hobby, and I let her indulge in it.
I can assure you last week my wife had to take
the gown off her back to get 1». on it. My
little ones seldom have a bit of meat from one
Sunday to another, and never a bit of butter."
I then descended into the porlom-. The
chililren were all stjated on little stools that
their father had made for them in his spare
moments, and warming themselves round the
fire, their httle black shoes i*esting on the
white hearth. From their regular features,
small mouths, large black eyes, and fair skins,
no one woidd have taken them for a lalx)uring
man's family. In answer to my questions, he
said : '* The eldest of them (a pretty little half-
clad girl, seated in one comer) is ten, the next
seven, that one five, that three, and tliis (a
little thing perched upon a table near the
mother) two. I've got all their ages in the
Bible up-stairs." I remarked a stnutige look
about one of the little girls. ** Yes, she always
suffered witli that eye; and down at the
hospital they lately perfonued an operation
on it." An artificial pupil had been made.
The room was closed in from the passage by
a radely built partition. " That I did myself
in my leisure," said the man ; *' it makes the
room snugger.'' As he saw me looking at the
clean rolling-pin and bright tins hung against
the wall, he observed : " That's all my wife's
doing. She lias got them together by some-
times going without dinner herself, and laying
out the 2(i. or 3rf. in things of Uiat sort. That
is how she manages. To-day she has got us
a sheep's head and a few turnips for our Sun-
day's dinner," he added, taking off the lid of
the boiling saucepan. Over the mantelpiece
hung a picture of George IV., surrounded by
four other frames. One of them contxiined
merely three locks of hair. The man, laugh-
ing, told me, " Two of them are locks of myself
and my wife, and the light one in the middle
belonged to my wife's brother, who died in
India. That's her doing again," he added.
After tliis I paid a visit to the other teeto-
taler at his home, and there saw one of his
sons. He had six children altogether, and
also supported his wife's mother. If it wasn't
for him, the poor old thing, who was seventy-
five, and a teetotaler too, must have gone to
the workhouse. Three of his six children
lived at home; tlio other three were out at
service. One of the lads at home was a coal-
backer. He was twenty-four years of age, and
on an average could earn 17«. Orf. It was four
years since he had taken to backing. He said,
•* I am at work at one of the worst wharfs in
London ; it is called * the slaughter-house ' by
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
the men, bocaUBe the work is so excessive.
Tha strongest man cun only hist twelve yeaw
at tlie work there; oiler that ho is uverstndiieil
and of uo use. I do the liordcst work, and
carry the coals up from the hold. The ladder
I mount has about thirt^'-flve steps, and stands
very nearly stroiglit on end. Plach time I
mount I Qvcrry on my back 2n8 pounds. No
man can work at this for more than five days
in the week. I work three days running, then
have a day's rest, and then work two days more.
I myself generally do five days' work out of the
six. I never drink any beer, and have not for
the last eight months. For thiXN3 years and
four months I took beer to get over tlie work.
I used to liave a puit at eleven, a x>ot at dinner,
a pint at four o'clock, and double allowanoe, or
a coujile of pots, afUir work. Very often I had
more than double allowance. I seldom in a
day drank less than that; but I have done
more. I have ilnmk five pot^i in four minutes
and a-IialC So my (ixpenditure for beer was
]«. -W. a-day I'cgularly. Iiidei^l, I use^l to
allow mysulf thnje hidf-cr«wns to spend in
beer a-week. Sundays included. AVhen a coal-
worker is in full work, he usually siKjnds 'Is.
a-day, or \)U, a- week, in bt»«T. The trade calls
these men tcmix-mte. When they spend l^s.
the trade tliink tliey are intern pcrate. lieftmt
I took the pledg.i I scarcely ever went to In-d
sober after my laboiu*. I was not always drunk,
but I wjis heavy imd stupid with beer. Twice
witliin the time I was a conlbacker I hiiv<.>
been iusi^unibly (hnink. I should say thrcn?-
fourths of the coalbai'kers are dnuik twice a-
wot*k. Coalbackiug is as hoa^-y a class of
labour as any performed. I don't know tmy
that can beat it. I have been eight months
doing tlie work, and can Si)lemnly state I have
never tosteil a dix)p of fermented liijuor. I
have foimd I could do my work bitter and
brisker than when I drank. I never feel
thirsty over my work now ; before, I was always
di7, and telt as if I could never drink enough
to quench iL Now I never think from the
time I go to work till the time I have my
dinner ; then my usual beverage is (ntlier cold
coffee or oatmeal and water. From that time
I never drink till I take my t(>a. On Uiis
system I find mys<^lf quite as strong us I did
with the i>orter. "When I ilraiik porter it used
to itiuko me go along with a sack a little bit
biisker for half.an-hour, but after that I was
dead, and obliged to have some more. There
are men at the wharf wlio drink beer and
spirits that can do six days' labour ui the week.
1 oau't do this myself. I have done as much
when I took fermented Uquors, but I only did
80 by whipping myself up with stimulants. I
■was obliged to drmk every hour a pint of beer
to force ma along. That was only working for
the publican ; for I had leas money at the
week's end than when I did less work. Now I
can keep longer and more steadily at my work.
In a month I would wairant to back more
coals than a drunkard*. X think the drunkard
can do more for a short space of time than the
teitotalcT. I am satisfied the coolbockers aa
a ehiss would be better off if they left off the
diinking: and then masters would not force
them to do so much work after dark as they do
now. They always pay at public-houses. If
tliat system was abandoned, the men would be
j^Toatly benefited by it Drinking is not a
necessity of the labour. All I want when Tm.
at work is a bit of coal in. tfae month. This
not only keeps the moutii coolybui aa we go up
the ladder we very often scrunoh our teeth—
the work's so hard. The coal kaepa us fkxuo.
biting the tongue, that's one use ; the other is^
that by rolling it along in the mouth it excitea
the spittle, and it moistens the mouth. This.
I find a great deal better tiian a pot of
porter."
In order to complete my investigodans oon«
ceming the necessity of drinking in tlie coaL
whipping trade, I had an interview with some
of tiie more intelligent of the mea who had
bei-n principally concerned in the pasting of
the Act that rescued the dasa from the "thral-
dom of the pubUcan."
** I consider," sidd one, " tliot diink is not a
necessity of oiu: labour, but it is a uecessity of
the system under whieh wo were formerly
working. I have done th*) hanlest work that
any labouring man ciui do, and drank no fer-
mented hquor. Nor do 1 consider fermented
liquors to be necessary for the severest hibour.
This I cim say of my own experience, having
been a t<>etuUder for sixteen mouths. But if
the working man don't have the driidc, he mutit
have good solid food, superior to what ho is ia
the habit of having. A pot of cotfee and a
gooil beef dumpling will get one over the most
severe; labour. But if ho can't liave that ha
must have. the stimulants. A pint of beec ha
can always have on credit, but he can't the
beef dumpling. If there is an oxousa for any
I)ersons ilnnkmg Uiere is for the ooalwhippera^
for under the old system they were forucd to
become habitual dnuikanls to obtain work.!'
I also questioned anotlier of the men, who
had been a prime mover in obLaining the Act.
He assured me, that before the " emancipation"
of the men the universal belief of the coal-
whippers, enuouraged by the publicans,. was,
that it was impossible for them to work with-
out hquor. In order to do away with thut
delusion, the three principal agents in pBocm^
ing the Act became teetotalers of their own
accord, and remained so, one foe sixtoen x
montlis and anoUier for nine years, in ovder
to prove to their fellow workmen that drinking |
over their labotur could be dispensed with» and j
that they might have "cool brains to fight
through the work they had tuadextaken."
Anotlier of the more intelligent men who
had been a teetotaler : — ^ I pesfonnad. tha
hardest labour I ever did, befova or aftasi with
more ease and satisfaction than, aver I did
under tha. drinking system. It ia q|iita a delu-
sion, to beliave that with, proi^ntttamaot tha
LOKDOir LABOUR AND THE LOXDON POOR.
253
health decHxXQS tmder principles of total
ibstiiience.*
JMter thfar t was anxions to continne my
mTPstigadonB among die coidipoiters, and' see
whe&er the more intelligent among' them
were as ftrmly convinced as the better class of
eofllwhippeis' were, that intoxicating drinks
were not necessary for the performance of
hard labour. I endeavom^ to And one of
each dflSB, pursning the same, plan as I had
ad)opted witk the coalwhippers': tiz: I sought
fixs^ on» who war 90 flnnlj convinced of the
neces^ty of drinking' fbnnented liquors during
his wotIc^ that he had never been induced to
abandon thenr; secondly, I endeavoured to
obtain the evidence of one who had tried the
principle of total abstinence and fbund it ftiil ;
and thirdly, I strove to procure the opinion of
those who had been teetotalers fbr several
years, and who could conscientiously state
that no stimulant was necessary for the per-
fbrmance of their labour. Subjoined is the
result of my investigations.
Omceming the motives and reasons for the
great consumption of beer by the coalportcrs,
I obtained the following statement from one
of diem : — ** I've been all my life at coalporter-
ing, off and on, and am now thirty-nine. For
tbe last two years or so Pvc worked regularly
M a filler to Mr. — ^'s waggons. 1 couldn't
do my work without a good allowance of beer.
I can't afford so much now, as my ftmiily costs
mc more ; but my regular allowance one time
was three pots a-day. I have drank four pots,
and always a glass of giu in tbe morning to
keep out the cold air from the water. If I got
off then for 7*. a week for drink 1 reckoned it
a cheap week. I can't do my work without
my beer, and no coalporter can, properly.
It's all nonsense talking about ginger-beer, or
tea, or milk, or that sort of thing ; what body
is there in any of it ? Many a time I might
have been clicked with rool-dnst, if I hadn't
had my beer to clear my throat wth. I can't
say that I'm particularly tliirsty like next
ooming, after drinking three or four pots of
beer to my own work, but I don't get drunk."
Ho fhjquently, and with some emphasis, re-
peated the words, "But I don't get dnmk."
**Tou see, when you're at such hard work as
ours, one's tired soon, and a drop of good beer
puts new sap into a man. It oils bis joints
Hke. He con lift better and stir about brisker.
I dont care much fur beer when I'm quiet at
bome on a Sunday; it sets me to sleep then.
Tonoe tried to go without to please a master,
«od did work one day with only one half-pint.
Iwent home as tired as a dog. I should have
l»een soon good for noUiing if Td gone on that
^y — half-pinting in a day. Lord love you !
5* know a drop of good beer. The coalporters
i« admitted to be as good judges of beer as
•nymcn in London — maybe, the best judges;
Wer than publicans. No salt and waterwiU
go- down with us. Irs no use a publican trying-
tO'pDDmon na wxtii any of hia cag-mag- 8tn£
Salt and water for us I Sartainly, a drop of
short (neat spirit) does one good in a cold
morning like this ; it's uncommon raw by the
waterside, you see. Coalporters doesn't often
catch cold — beer and gin keeps it out. Perhaps
my beer and gin now cost me 5». a- week, and
that's a deal out of what I can earn. I dare
say I earn 18.t. a- week. Sometimes I may
spend 0». That's a third of my earnings, you
say, and so it is ; and as it's necessary for my
work, isn't it a shame a poor man's pot of
beer, and drop of gin, and pipe of tobacco,
should be so dear? Taxes makes them dear.
I can read, sir, and I understaind these things.
Beer — four pots a-day of it doesn't make mo
step unsteady. Hard work carries it off, and
so one doesn't feel it that way. Beer^ made
of com OS well as bread, and so it stands to
reason it's nouiishing. Nothing'll persuade
me it isn't Let a tw^total gentleman trj' his
hand at coal-work, and then he'll see if beer
has no support in it. Too much is bad, I
know, but a man can always tell how much he
wonts to help him on with his work. If beer
didn't agree with me, of course I wouldn't
drink it: but it docs. Saiiainly we drops into
a beer-shop of a night, and does tipjde a little
when work's done; and the old women (our
wives) comes for us, and they get a sup to
soften them, nnd so they may get to like it
overmuch, as you say, and one's bit of a house
may po to rack autl manger. Pve a good wife
myself, though. I know well enough all them
things is bad — drunkenness is bad ! ^Ul I ask
for is a proper allowance at work ; the rest is
no j,'ood. I can't t^ll whether too much or no
beer at coal-work would be best; perhaps none
at all : leastways it would bo safer. I shouldn't
like to try either. Perhaps coalporters does
get old sooner than other trades, and mayn't
live so long; but that's their hartl woi-k, and it
would be worse still without beer. But I
don't get drunk.*'
I conversed with sevend men on the subject
of their beer-drinking, but the foregoing is the
only Htat^Miient I mot witli where a coalporter
could give any reason for his faith in the
^•irtu(ts of beer ; and vngne as in somo points
it may be, tlie other reasons I had to listen to
were still vaguer. " Somehow we can't do
without beer ; it puts in the strength that the
work takes out." '* It's necessary Xov support."
Such was the pith of every argument.
In order ftilly to carry out this inquiry, I
obtained the address of a coalbackcr firom the
ships, who worked hard and drank a good deal
of beer, and who had the character of being an
industrious man. I saw him in his own i^art-
ment, his wife being present while he made
the following statement :—" Pve worked at
backing since I was twenty-four, and that's
more than twelve years ago. I limit myself
now, because times is not so good, to two pots
of beer a-day ; that is when Pm all day at
work. Some takes more. I reckon, that when
times was better I dnmk fifteen pots a-week,
204
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOF.
for I was in regular work, and middlin' well
oft*. That's 780 pots, or 195 gallons a-year,
you say. Like enough it may be. I never
calculaU'd, but it does seem a deal. It can't
be done witliout^ and men themselves is the
best judges of what suits their work — I mean,
of how much to take. Ill tell you what it is,
sir. Our work's harder than people guess at,
and one must rest sometimes. Now, if you
sit down to rest without something to refresh
you, the rest does you harm instead of good,
for your joints seem to stiffen ; but a good pull
at a pot of beer backs up the rest, and we
start Ughtsomcr. Our work's very hard. I've
worked till my head's ached like to split ; and
when I've got to bed, I've felt as if I've had
the weight on my bock still, and I've started
awake when I fell off to sleep, feeling as if
something was crushing my back flat to my
chest I can't say that I ever tried to do with-
out beer altogether. If I was to think of such
a thing, my old woman there would think I was
out of my head." The wife assented. ** I've
often done with a little when work's been
Blockish. First, you see, we bring the coal up
from the ship's hold. There, sometimes, it's
dreadful hot, not a mouthful of air, and the
coal-dust' sometimes as thick as a fog. You
breathe it into you, and your throat's like a
flue, so that you must have something to
drink. I fancy nothing quenches you like
beer. We want a drink that tastes. Then
there's the coals on your back to be carried up
a nasty ladder, or some such contrivance, per-
haps twenty feet, and a sack fiill of coals
weighs 2 cwt and a stone, at least ; the sack
itselTs heavy and thick : isn't that a strain on
a man 7 No horse could stand it long. Then,
when you get fairly out of the ship, you go
along planks to the waggon, and must look
sharp, 'specially in slippeiy or wet weather, or
you'U topple over, and then there's the hospi-
tal or the workhouse for you. Last week we
carried along planks sixty feet, at least.
There's notlung extra allowed for distance,
but there ought to be. I've sweat to that
degree in summer, that I've been tempted to
jump into the Thames to cool myself. The
sweat's run into my boots, and I've felt it run-
ning down me for hours as I had to trudge
along. It makes men bleed at the nose and
mouth, this work does. Sometimes we put a
bit of coal in our mouths, to prevent our biting
our tongues. I do, sometimes, but it's almost
as bad as if you did bite your tongue, for when
the strain comes heavier and heavier on you,
you keep scrunching the coal to bits, and
swallow some of it, and you're half choked ;
and then it's no use, you must have beer.
Some's tried a bit of tobacco in th^ir mouths,
but that doesn't answer ; it makes you spit,
and often spit blood. I know I can't do with-
out beer. I don't think they 'didterate it for
us; they may for fine people, that just tastes
it, and. I've heard, has wine and things. But
we must have it good, and a publican knows I
who's good customers. Perhaps a bit of good
grub might be as good as beer to strengtihen
you at work, but tJbe straining and sweating
makes you thirsty, more than hungiy ; aad if
poor men must work so hard, and for so little,
for rich men, why poor men will take idiat
they feel will satisfy them, and run the risk of
its doing them good or harm ; and that's just
where it is. I can't work three days running
now without feeling it dreadfuL I get a mate
that's fresher to finish my work. I'd rather
earn less at a trade tliat would give a man a
chance of some ease, but all trades is over-
stocked. You see we have a niceish tidy room
here, and a few middling sticks, so I can't be
a drunkard."
I now give the statement of a coalporCer who
had been a teetotaler : — ** I have been twenty-
two years a coalheaver. When I began that
work I earned bO$. a-week as backer and filler.
I am now earning, one week with another, say
155. We have no sick fund among ns — ^no
society of any sort — no club— no schools— no
nothing. We had a kind of union among us
before the great strike, more than fourteen
years back, but it was just for the strike. We
struck against masters lowering the pay
for a ton to 2^. from 2iJ. The strike only
lasted two or three weeks, and the men were
forced to give way ; they didn't all give way
at once, but came to gpradual. One cant see
one's wife and children without bread. There's
very few teetotalers among us, though there's
not many of us now that can be called drunken
— they can't get it, sir. I was a teetotaler
myself for two years, till I couldnt keep to it
any longer. We all break. It's a few years
back, I forget zactlv when. At that time tee-
totalers might drink shrub, but that never did
me no good ; a good cup of tea freshened me
more. I used then to drink ginger-beer, and
spruce, and tea, and coffee. I've paid as much
as 6*, a-week for ginger-beer. When I teeto-
taled, I always felt thirsty. I used to long
for a drink of beer, but somehow managed to
get past a public-house, until I could stand it
no longer. A derk of ours broke first, and I
followed him. I certainly felt weaker before
I went back to. my beer; now I drink a pint
or two as I find I want it. I can't do without
it, so it's no use trying. I joined because I
felt I was getting racketty, and giving my
mind to not^g but drink, instead of looking
to my house. There may be a few teetotalers
among us, but I think not. I only knew two.
We all break — we can't keep it. One of these
broke, and the other kept it, because, if he
breaks, his wife'U break, and they were both
reg^ular drunkards. A coalporter's worn out
before what you may call wdl old. There's
not very old men among us. A man's done
up at fiiiy, and seldom Uves long after, if he
has to keep on at coalportering. I wish we
had some sick fhnd, or something of that
kind. If I was laid up now, there would be
nothing but the parish for me, my wi£9, and
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
255
four childer (here the poor man spoke in a
broken Toice). The masters often discharge
old bands when they get feeble, and put on
bojs. We have no coals allowed for our own
firesides. Some masters, if we buys of them,
charges us full price, others a little cheaper."
I MW this man in the eyening, after he had
left his work, in his own room. It was a
large and^airy garret His wife, who did not
know previously of my visit, had in her do-
mestic arrangements manifested a desire com-
mon to the better disposed of the wives of the
labourers, or the poor — tliat of trying U\ make
her ** bit of place" look comfortable. She had
to tend a baby four months old; two elder
chililren were iU clad, but clean; the eldest
boy, who is fifteen, is in the summer employed
on a river steamboat, and is then uf great help
to his parents. There were two beds in the
room, and the bedding was decently arranged
so as to form a bundle, while its scantiness or
worn condition was thus concealed. The soli-
tary table had a fadrd green cloth cover, very
threadbare, but still a cover. There were a
few cheap prints over the mantelshelf, and
the host description I can give is, in a phrase
not unconimou among the poor, that tlie whole
was an attempt to " appeal* decent." The
woman spoke well of her husband, who was
kind to her, and fond of his home, and never
drank on Sundays.
Last of all, I obtained an iuterWew with two
coalporters who had been teetotalers for
some years : —
•'I have been a coalportor ever since I
have been able to cany coals,' said one. " I
be;?an at sixteen. I have been a backer all
the time. I have been a teetotaler eight
years on the 10th of next March. My average
earnings where I am now is about 35«. per
week. At some wharfs work is veiy bad, and
I the men don't averag<.» half that. They were
paid every night where I worked last, and
sometimes I have gone home with 2\d, Take
OQe ^-ith the other, I should say the coal-
porter's earnings average about 1/. a-week.
^ly present place is about as good a berth as
there is along the waterside. There is only
one gang of us, and we do as much work as
two will do in many wharfs. Before I was a
teetotaler, I principally drank ale. I judged
that the more I gave for my drink, the better
it was. Upon an average, I used to drink
from three to four pints of ale per day. I used
to drink a good drop of gin, too. The coal-
porters are very partial to ' dog's nose ' — tliat is,
half a pint of ale with a pennywortli of gin in
it ; and when they have got the money, they
go up to wliat they term * the lucky shop ' for
it. The coalporters take this every morning
through the week, when they can afibrd it
After my work, I used to drink more than
when I was at it I used to sit as long as the
house would let me have any. Upon an ave-
nge, I should say I used to take three or four
pints more of an evening ; so that, altogether,
I think I may fairly say I drank my four pots
of ale regularly every day, and about half a
pint of dog's nose. I reckon my drink used to
cost me 13». a-week when I was at work. At
times I was a drunken, noisy gentleman then."
Another coalporter, who has been a tee-
taler ten years on the 25th of last August,
told me, that before he took the pledge he
used to drink a great deal after he had done
Ills work, but while he was at work he could
not stand it " I don't think I used to drink
above three pints and a half and a penny-
worth of gin in the daytime," said this man.
** Of an evening I used to stop at the pubUc-
house, generally till I was drunk and unfit to
work in the morning. I will vouch for it
I used to take about three pots a-day after I
had done work. My reckoning used to come
to about \$. 8rf. a-day, or, including Sundays,
about 10«. i)d. per week. At that time I could
average all the year round about 305. arweek,
and I used to drink away 10«. of it regularly.
I di 1, indeed, sir, more to my shame."
The other coalporter told me his earnings
averaged about the same, but he drank more.
" I should say I got rid of ueaily one- half
of my money. I did like the boer then : I
thought I could not live without it. It's be-
tween twelve and thirteen years since the first
coalporter signed the pledge. Ilis name was
John Sturge, and he was looked upon as a mad-
man. I looked upon him myself in that light.
The next was Thomas Bailey, and he was my
teetotal father. When I first heard of a coal-
porter doing without beer, I thought it a thing
impossible. I mode sure they wouldn't live
long ; it was part of my education to believe
they couldn't. Aly grandfather brewed home-
brewed beer, and he used to say to me, * Drink,
my lad, it'll make tliee strong.' The coal-
porters say now, if wo could get the genuine
home-brewed, tbat would be the stuff to do us
good; the publican's wash is no good. I
drank for strength ; the stimulation caused by
the alcohol I mistook for my own power."
" Richard Ilooper ! lie's been a teetotaler
now about twelve years. He was the fourth
of tlie coaleys as signed the pledge, and
he first instilled teetotahsm on my mind,"
said the other man. " Where he works now
there's nine out of fifteen men is teetotalers.
Seeing that he could do his work much better
than when he drinkcd beer, induced me to
become one. He was more regular in his
work after he liad given it up tlian whenever
I knowed him before."
" The way in which Thomas Bailey put it
into my head was this here," continued the
other. " He invited me to a meeting : I
told him I would come, but he'd never make
a teetotaler of mo, I knowed. I went with
the intention to listen to what they could
have to say. I was a little bit curious to
know how they could make out that beer
was no good for a body. The first man that
addressed the meeting was a tailor. I thought
2M
LONDON LdBOUS AND THE LONDON J'OOIi.
it might do veir well for him ; but then, says
I, if you had the weight (;i' 238lbs. of co^s
on jour backf znj lud, you cuubhi't do it
•without alo or bi>er. I thtiught thin ]icrc, be-
cause I was taught to believe I couldn't do
without it. I cared uot what any mun said
about beer, I bohcvcd it was life itself. After
tJic tailor a coolportor got up to speuk. Then
I began to listen more attentive]^'. The man
Maid ho once had a happy home and a liappy
wifSe, cver}'thing the heart could wish fur, but
through the intoxicating drinks he had been
robbed of everytliing. The man pictured the
drunkard^ home so faithfully, tliat tlie arrowy
of conviction stuck fast in my heart, and my
conscience said, Thou ail a drunkard, too !
The coalporter said his home had been made
happy through the principle of total absti-
nence. I was determined to iry it from that
hoar. My home was as mLierable as it pos-
sibly could be, and I knowed intoxicating
drink was the cause on it. I signed the
pledge that niglit alter tlie coalporter was
done speaking, but was many mouths before
I was thoroughly convinced I was doing right
in abstaining altogctlier. I kept thinking on
it after going home of a night, tired and fa-
tigued with my hard work, some times scarcely
able to get up-stairs through being so over-
wrought ; and not being quite satislied about
it, I took everj' opitortunity to hear lectures
upon the subject. I heard one on the pro.
pcrties of intoxicating drinks, wluch quite
convinced mo that I hod been labouring under
a delusion. The gentleman aualyned tlie beer
in my presence, and I saw that in a pint of it
there was 14 ozs. of water tliat I had been
paying ^d, for, 1 oz. of alcohol, and 1 oz. of
what they call nutritious matter, but which is
the filthiest stufT man ever set eyes upon. It
looked more like cobblers' wax than anything
olso. It was what tlie lecturer C4dli>d the — ^resi-
dyum, I tliiuk was the name he gave it. The
alcohol is what stunulatos u man, und makes
him feci as if he coidd currv' two sucks of cool
while it huits, but afterwords comes the de-
pression ; tliat's what the coolporters Cidl the
' blues.' And then lie feds that lie can do no
.work at all, and he citlier goes home and puts
another man on in his })luce, or else he goes
and works it off with mon* ilrinU. You s(?e,
where wo coalporters have been mistalctm is
believing alcohol was nutriment, and in fim-
oying that a stimulant was strength. Alcohol
is nothing strengthening to the body — indeed,
it hardens the food in the stomach, and so
iiiuders digestion. .You con si*e as much any
iia^ if you go into the hospitals, and look at
the different parts of animals presened hi
spirits. The strangtli that alcohol gives is
unnatural and false. It's food only that can
give real strength to tlie frame. I have done
more work since I've been a teetotaler in my
eight years than I did in my ten or twelve
years before. I have felt stronger. I don't
81^ that I do my work better, but Uiis I will
say, without any fear of contradiction, that
I do my work with more ease to myself, and
with more satisikction to my employer, siuco
1 have given over intoxicating drinks. I
scarcely know what thirst is. Lefore I took
the pledge I was always diy, and Ihe mere
shadow of tlie ])otboy was quite sufficient
to convince me that t wanted something. I
certainly haven't felt weaker since I left off
mult liquor. I have eaten more and drank
less. I live as well now as any of the pub-
licans do, and who has a better right to do so
than the man who works? I have backed as
many as sixty tons in a day since I took the
pledge, and have done it without any intoxi-
ciUiug drink, with perfect ease to myself, and
walked five miles to a temperance meeting
afterwords. But before I became a teetotaler,
after the same amount of work, I should
scarcely have been able to crawl home; I
should have "been certain to have lost tlie
next day's work at least : but now I can back
that quantity of coals week after week without
losing a day. I've got a Canuly ol six diildren
under twelve years of age. lUjr wife's a tee-
totaler, and has suckled four children upon
Uie principle of total absUnenee. Teetotalism
has made my home guite happy, and #bat I
get goes twiee as far. Where I work now,
four out of five of us are teetotalers. I am
quite satisfied that tlie heaneat wodc that a
man can possibly do may be done 4rithout a
drop of fermented liquor. I si^ so from my
own experience. All kind of intoxicating
drinks is quite a delusion. They are the oause
of the working man's wages being lowered.
Masters can get the men who drink at (heir
own price. If it wasn't for the money si>ent
ill liquor we should have funds to fall back
upon, and then we could stand out against
any reduction that the masters might waut to
put upon us, and could command a fair day's
wages for a fair day's work : but as it isy the
nien are all beggars, and must take what the
master offers them. The backing of coals
out of the liolds of ships is man-killing work.
It's scandalous that men shoidd be allowed to
force tlioir fellow-men to do such labour.
The calves of a man's leg is as hard as a bit
of board after that there straining work ; they
honlly know how to turn out of bed of a
morning after they have been at that for a
day. I never worked below bridge, thank
God! and I hope I never shall. I've not
wanted for a day's work since I've been a
teetotaler. Men can back out of a ship's hold
better without liquor than with it. iVo tee-
totalers can do the work better — ^that is, with
more ease to ourselves-^tlian the drinking
men. Many teetotalers have backed coals
out of the hold, and I have heard them ssjf
over and over again that they did their work
with more comfort and ease tlian they did
when tliey drank intoxicating drink. Coal-
backing irom the ship's hold is the haidest
work that it is possible for a man to do.
ZONDON LABOUR AND THE LOXDON POOR.
257
Going up a ladder 16 feet high Trith 238 lbs.
weight on a man's back is sufficient to kill
any one; indeed, it does kill the men in a
few yaan, they're soon old men at that work :
and I do Bi^ that the nmsters below bridge
ahonld be stopped going on as they're doing
now. And -what for? "Why, to put the money
th«(y save by it into their own pockets, for
the public ain't no better off, the coals is just
as dear. Then the whippcrs and lightermen
are all thrown out of work by it ; and what's
more, the lives of the backers are shortened
many years— we reckon at least ten years."
**I wish to say this much," said the other
teetotaler: **lt's a practice with some of the
coal-merchants to iMiy their men in public-
bonsea, and this is the chief cause of a
great portion of the wages being spent in
drink. I once worked for a master upon
Bankside as paid his men at a public-house,
and 1 worked a week there, which yearned
me QS$, and some odd halfpence. 'VV^hen I
went on Saturday night the publican asked
me what I was come for. In reply, I said
* I'm come to aettle.' He said, ' You're already
setCed with,' meaning T had nothing to taku.
I had drinked all my lot away, he said, with
the exoeption of 5s. I had boiTowcd during
the week. Then I told him to look back, and
Wd find Pd something due to me. He c(id
so, and said there was a halfpenny. I had
nothing to take home to my wife and two
children. I asked tlie publican to lend me a
few ahillinga, saying my young un's had no-
thing to eat. His reply was, *■ That's nothing
to me, that's your business.' After tliat 1
made it my business. "While I stood at the
bar in came the tliree teetotalers, and picked
up the 28j», each that was coming to them,
■nd I thought how much better they was off
than me. The publican stopped all my money
for drink that I knowod I'd not had, nnd yet
I couldn't help myself, 'cause he had the
pa>ing on me. Then somi'thing came over
me as I stood there, and I snid, * From this I
night, with the help of God, I'll never taste of ]
another drop of intoxicating hqu^rs.' That's
ten years ago the 25th of last August, and
Ivo kept my pledge ever since, thank God I
That publican has )>een the making of me. The
master what discharged rae'beforo for getting
drunk, when he heard that I was sober sent
for me back again. But before that, the three
teetotalers who was a working along with me
was discharged V»y their master, to oldige the
Sublican who stopped my money. The pul>- ,
mn, you see, had his coals from the wlmrf. j
He was a *braHs-phite cortl-merclmnt' as well ■
fts a publican, and had private customei-s of |
Ms own. He threatened to take his work
away from the wharf if the three teetotalers
Wasn't discharged ; and sure enough tlie master
did dischaiige them, sooner tlian lose so good
a customer. Many of the masters now are
growing favourable to teetotalisni. I can say
thatTve done more on the principle of tottd
abstinence than ever I done before. I'm better
in health, I've no trembling when I goes to
my work of a morning ; but, on the contrary,
I'm ready to meet it. I'm hapjiier at home.
We never has no angry words now," said the
man, with a shake of the head, and a strong
emphasis on the no*. " My children never
runs away from me as they used to before ;
they come and embrace mo more. My money
now goes for eatables and clothes, what I and
my children once was deprived on through
my intemperate habits. And I bless God and
the publican that made me a teetotaler — ^that
I do sincorel}' — every night as I go to bed.
And as for men t«:) hold out that they can't do
their work without it, I'm prepared to prove
tliat we have done more work without it than
ever we have done or could do with it."
I have been requested by the coalwhippers
to publish the following expression of gra-
tituile on their part towards the Government
for the establishment of the Coalwhippers'
Office :—
*' The change that the Legislature has pro-
duced in us, by putting an end to the thraldom
of the publican by the institution of this office,
we wisli it to be generally known that we and
our wives and children are very thankful
for."
I shall now conclude with the follo\ving
estimate of the number of the hands, ships,
&c. engaged in the coal trade in London.
There arc about 400 wharfs, I am informed,
from Wapping to Chelsea, as well as those on
the City-canal. A large wharf will keep about
50 horses, 0 waggons, and 4 caits ; aud it
will employ constantly from 3 to 4 gongs of
5 men. Besides these, there will be 0 wag-
goners, I cart-cai-raan, and about 2 trouncers
— in all, from 24 to tiU men. A small wharf
will employ 1 gang of ."> men, about 10 horses,
3 waggons, and 1 cart, 3 waggoners, 1 trouncer,
and 1 cart-camian. At the time of the strike,
sixteen years ago, there wore more than 3000
coalporters, I am told, in London. It is sup-
posed that there is an average of IJ gang, or
tth(»ut 7 men employed in each wharf; or, in
all. UWO coalport*.Ts in constant employment,
and about 200 and odd men out of worlc
There are in the trade about 4 waggons and 1
cart to each wharf, or 1 (iOO waggons and 400
carts, having 5^00 horses; to these there
would b(; about 3 waggoners and 1 cart-carman
upon an average to tatih wharf, or IGOO in all.
Each wharf would occui)y about 2 trouncers,
or 000 in the whole.
Hence the btaii:;tic3 of the coal ti'ade will
be as follows : —
No.
Ships 2,177
Seamen 21,000
Tons of coal entering the Tort of
London each year • . 3,418,140
Coolmeters .... 370
J^38
Coalwliippcrs .
Coalportc'rs
Coaliactors
Coalmcrchants
Coaldealers
Coal waggons .
Horses for ditto
Waggoners
Trimmers
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
No.
2,000
3,000
2.'i
502
205
1,(J00
5.200
1,000
800
I continue my inquirj' into tlie state of the
coal -labourers of the metropolis.
Tlio coalheavers, properly so called, are now
no longer known in the trade. The class of
coallicavt.'rs, according to the vulgar accepta-
tion of the word, is dinded into coalwhippers,
or those wlio wliip up or lift the coals rapidly
from the hold, and the coalbackers, or those
who cariy them on their backs to the wharf,
cither from the hold of the^ship moored along,
side the wharf, or from the lighter into which
the coals have been whipped from the collier
moored in the middle of the river, or " Pool."
Formerly the coals were delivered from the
holds of the ships by the labourers shovelling
them on to a series of stages, raised one
above the other till they ultimately reached
the deck. One or two men were on each
stage, and hove the coals up to the stage im-
mediately above them. The laboui-ers en-
gaged in this process were termed **coal-
hcavci-s." But now the coals arc deliveretl at
once from the hold by means of a sudden
jerk, which " whips " tliem on deck. This
is the process of coiJwhipping, and it is per-
formed chiefly in the middle of the river, to
fill the ** room's*' of the barges that carry the
coals from the ship to the wharf. Cools ore
occasionally delivered immediately from the
sliip on to the wliarf by means of the process
of ** coalbacking," as it is called. This con-
sists in the socks being filled in the hold, and
then carried on the men's backs up a ladder
fVom the liold, along jilanks from the ship to
the wharf. By this means, it will be easily
understood that the ordinary processes of
whipping and lightering are avoided. By the
process of coalwhipping, the ship is delivered
in the middle of the river, or the " Pool " as it
is called, and the coals are lightered, or car-
ried to the wharf, by means of barges, whence
they are transported to the wharf by the pro-
cess of backing. But when the coals are
backed out of the ship itself on to the wharf,
the two preliminary processes are done away
with. The ship is moored alongside, and the
coals ai"e delivered directly from tlie ships to
the premises of the wharfinger. By this
means the wharfingers, or coalmerchants,
below bridge, are enabled to have their coals
delivered at a cheaper price than those above
bridge, who must receive the cargoes hy means
of the barges. I am assured that the c(dliers,
in being moored alongside the wharfs, receive
considerable damage, and strain their timbers
£30 7 6
Expense of delivering a Ship of 300 ions bif tli»
process of Coalbacking,
For backing a ship of 360 tons
directly from the ship to the
whorf £16 n G
By the above account it will be seen, that if
a collier of 300 tons is delivered in the Pool,
the expense is 30/. 7s. 0</., but if delivered at
the wharf-side the expense is 10/. 17*. 6</., the
difference between the two processes being
13/. lOs. Hence, if the consumer were the
gainer, the coals should be delivered below
bridge dd. a ton cheaper than they are above
bridge. The nine coalwhippei's ordinarily en-
gaged in the whipping of the coals would have
gained 1/. Ox. 8rf. each man if they had not
been " backed'' out of the ship; but as the
coals delivered by backing below bridge are
not cheaper, and the whippers have not re-
scverely from the swell of the steamboats
passing to and fro. Again, the proceas of
coalbacking appears to be of so extremely
laborious a nature that the health, and indeed
the lives, of the men are both greatly injured
by it. Moreover, th e bcnefi t remains solely with
the merchant, and not with theconsumer,forthe
price of the coals delivered below bridge is the
same as those delivered above. The expense
of delivering the ship is always borne by the
shipowner. This is, at present, 8d. per ton,
and was originally intended to be given to the
whippers. But Uie merchant, by the pnocess
of backing, has discovered the means of avoid-
ing this process ; and so he puts the money !
which was originally paid by the shipowner
for whipping Uio cools into his own pockety
for the consumer is not a commensurate
gainer. Since the merchant below bridge
charges the same price to the public for ms
coals as the merchant above, it is clear that
he alone is benefited at the expense of the
public, the coalwhippers, and even the coal-
bockoi-s themselves; for on inquiry among
this latter class, I find that they obiect as !
much as the whippers to the delivery of a ship |
fVom the hold, the mounting of the ladders j
from the hold being of a most laborious and
ii^urious notui-o. I hove been supplied by a
gentleman who is intimately acquainted with i
the expenses of the two processes with the foU I
lowing comparative account : —
Expenses ofdeliuering a Ship ©/"OOO torn hy ih§
process of Coalwhipping,
For whipping 300 tons at Qd, per £ ». d,
ton 12 0 0
Lighterman's wages for 1 week en-
gaged in lightering the said 360
tons from ship to wharf . . 1 10 0
Expenses of backing the said coals
from craft to whai-f at ll\d. per
ton 10 17 a
•rjH LOKDON L4Ji^^
Coalwliippcrs
Coulporten
Coallucton
Coalmerahap
Coaldealeiv
Coal wBffg*
Hones S"
Waggon'
Trimmf
lor
coal
T
no
e
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
:ib\)
c.'iv<il any money, it follows that the 12/.
whieli has been ])ai{l by the t»liipowner to thu
iuen:Iiunt for die expense of whipping has
le«ii |»ocki'teil by ihe merchant, and the ox-
P'>n.«e of li};htcrin^, 1/. ](!«., tuived by him;
uiakini; a total protit of 13/. lOs., nut to men-
tii>ii the ci»Kt of wear and tear, and interest of
capital sunk in barges. This sum of money
is uiudo at the expense of the eoolbackerK
tlienittelves, who are seldom able 1o continue
the labour (so extreme is it ) for luore than
lwent\ years at the out^de, the avorapo dura-
tion of iliB labuurL'rs being only twelve years.
After this period, the men, from ha\iug b«*eu
overHtrninetl by their 'violent exertion, are un-
able to purane any other calling ; and yet the
merchants. I am sorry to say, Iiavc not even
enconnig^.^ tliem to form either a benetit
society, a Mupenmnutttion fund, or a Bchool for
their cliildren.
Wishing to i)crfect tlie inquiry, I thought it
better to see one of the seamen engaged in
the trade. Acoordingly, I went off to bome of
the coUien lying in Mill Hole, and fonnd an
intelligent man, ready to give me the inform-
ation I BoughL His statement was, that he
hftd been to sea between twenty-six and twenty.
seven years bhogethcr. ** Out of that time,"
he said, **I've had nine or ten years' expe-
rience at the eoal-traile. I've been to the
EflBt Indies and ^Vest Indies, and served my
apprenticeship in a whaler. I have been to
the Mediterranean, and to several ports of
Faooe. I tliink that, take tlie general run,
Ihe liYiug and treatment of the men in the
voal-teade is better than in fmy other going.
It's difficult to tell how many ships I've Insen
iii« and how many owners I've sen-ed under.
I have been in the same ship for three or four
years, and I have been only one voyage in one
ship. Ton see, wc are obliged to study oiu-
own interest as much as we can. Of com-se
the masters won't do it for us. Sj)eaking
generally, of the ditferent ships and different
ownem I've served under, I think the men are
generally well served. I have been in some
that have been very badly victualled: the
small stores in particular, such as tea, sugar,
and coffee, have been very bad. They, in
general, nip ns very short. There is a i-egular
allowance lixed by Act of Parliament ; but it's
t9o little for a man to go by. Some owners
go strictly by tlie Act, and some give more ;
but I don't know one that gives imder. In-
dited, as a general xiUe. I think the men in the
trade have nothing to complain of. The only
tiling is, the wages arc generally entail ; and
the ships are badly manned. In bad weatlier
there is not en«jngh hands to take the sail ofi
her, or else there wouldn't be so many accidents
as there ore. The average tonnage of a
coal-ship is from 60 up to about 2r)0 tons.
There are sometimes large ships; but they
<^me seldom, and When tliev du, they earn-
l>ut part coal cargo. They only load a portion
with coals Uiat they may be able to come across
the bar-harbours in the nortli. If they wero
loaded altogether with coals, they coidfln't got
over the bar: they would draw too much
water. For a ship of about from lUO to l.'JO
tons, the usual complement is gonerally
from tive to six hands, boys, captain, and
men all included togetlior. There might bo
two men bulbre the mast — a master, a mate,
and a boy. This is sadly too little. A ship
of this sort shouldn't, to my mind, have less
than se\'on hands : that is the loast to be side.
In rough weatlier, you sec, perhaps the ship
is letting water : the master takes the * helium/
one hand, in general, stops on deck to work
the pumps, and three goes aloft. Most likely
one of the boys has only been to sea one or
two voyages; and if there's six hands to
such a ship, two of them is sure to be
* green -boys,' just fresh from the shore, and of
little or no use to us. IVe haven't help
enough to get the sail off the yards in time, —
there's no one on deck looking out, — it may
be thick weather^ — and, of course, it's pro-
perly dangerous. About half the accidents at
Kea occur from the shii>s being biuUy manned.
The ships generally, throughout the coal-
trade, have one hand in six too little. The
colliers, mostly, carry double their registered
tonnage. A ship of 250 tons carrying 000, will
have ten hondi^ when she ought to have twelve
or thirteen ; and out of the ten that she does
have, perhaps four of them is boys. All sailors
in the cool-trade are paid by tlie voyoffc. They
\'wry from 3/. 10s. up to 4i. for able-bodied
seamen. The ships from the same port in
the north give all alike for a London joiume}'.
In the height of summer, the wages is from
<*)/. &s. to «')/. 1«M.; and in the winter they are
4/. Them's the liighest wages given this
winter. The wages are increased in the winter,
because the work's harder and the weather's
colder. Some of the ships Jay up, and there's
a greater demand for those that are in tlio
trade. It's true tliat the seamen of those that
are laying up are out of employ ; but I can't
siiy why it is that the wages don't come down
in consequence. All I know is tliey go up in
the winter. This is sadly too little pay, this 4/.
a journey. Probably, in the winter, a nnui may
make only two journeys in four months; and if
he's got a wife and family, his expenses is going
on at home all the wliile. The voyage I consider
to last from the time of sailing from the north
])ort, to the time of entering the north p«)rt
again. The averagi' time of coming from the
nortli port to Loudon is from ten to eleven
days. Smnetimes the passage has been done
in six : but I'm speaking of tlio ovom«f»:. "Wo
arc generally about twenty-two days at sea,
making the voyage from the north and back.
The rt'St of the time we artj discharging cargo,
or l}"ing idle in tlie I'ooL On making the port
of London, we have to remain in ' tlie Section '
till the cargo is sold. * The Section ' is be-
tween Woolwich and Gravoseud. I have re-
mained there as much as live weeks. I have
200
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOB.
been tliorc, too, only ono market-day — that is,
three days. It is very seldom this occurs.
The average time that we remain in * the Sec-
tion ' is from two to tliree weeks. The cause
of this delay arises from the factors not dis-
posing of the coals, in order to keep up the
prices. If a largo fleet comes, the factors will
not sell immediately, because the prices would
go down ; so we are kept in * the Section,* for
their convenience, without no more wages.
'When tlie cargo is sold we drop down into the
Pool; and there we remain about two days
more than we ought, for want of a meter.
We are often kept, also, a day over the day of
delivery. This wo call a * balk day.' The
OTSTicrs of the ship receive a certain compen-
sation for everj' one of these balk days.
This is expressed in the charter-party, or
ship's contract. The whippers and meters,
too, receive a certain sum for tliese bolk days,
tlie same as if they were working ; but the
seamen of tlio colUei-s are the only parties
who receive nothing. The delay arises en-
tirely through the merchant, and he ought to
pay us fur it. The coal-trade is the only trade
that pays by the voytijje ; all others paying by
tlie month : nnd the seamen feel it as u great
^'lievonce, this detention not being paid for.
\iiYy often, while I have been lajing in * the Sec-
tion,' because the conlfoctor would not sell, other
seanu'H that ent«.T(id the port of London with
mo have made another voyage and been back
again, wliilst I was stopping idle ; and been
been ill. lO.i., or 4/., the better for it. Four or
live yciirs since tlie voyage was 1/. or 2/. better
paid for. I have had, myself, as much as C/.
the voyage, and been detained much less.
Within the lost tlireo years our wages have
deen.*ased 30 per cent, whilst the demand for
coals and for colliers lias increased consider-
ably. I never heard of such a thing as supply
and domimd ; but it does seem to me a very
queer thing tliat, whilst tliere's a greater quan-
tity of coals sold, ond more coUiers employ-
ed, we poor soiuneii should be paid woi-se.
In all the ships that I have been in, I've gene-
rally been pretty well fed; but I have been
aboard some shij>s, nnd heard of a great many
more, wliere the food is very bad, and the men
are very badly usetl. On tins passage, the
general rule is to feed the men upon salt
meat. The pork they in genend use is Ken-
tucky, Russian, Irish, and, indeed, a mixture
of all nations. Any kind of oflid goes aboard
some ships ; but the one I'm on now there's
as good meat as ever went aboard ; aye, and
plenty of it — no stint."
A basketman, who was present whilst I
was taking the above statement, told me that
the foreman of the coalwliippers had more
chances of judging of the state of the pro-
Tisions supplied to the colliers than the men
had themselves ; for the basketmen delivered
many different ships, and it was the general
rule for them to get their dinner aboard,
among the sailors. The basketman here
referred to told me that he had been a batcher,
and was consequently well able to judge of the
quality of the meat. '* I have no hesitatum,**
said he, ^ in stating, that one half the meat
supplied to the seamen is unfit for human
consumption. I speak of the pork in parti-
cular. Frequently the men throw it over-
board to get it out of the way. Many a time
when Tve been dining with the men I wouldn't
touch it It fairly and regularly atinks as they
takes it out of the coppers."
The Coalmetebs.
I NOW come to the class called Coalmeters.
These, though belonging to the class of
<( clerks," rather than labourers, still form so
important a link in the chain, that I think it
best to give a description of theii* duty here.
The coalmeters weigh the coals on board
ship. They are employed by a committee of
coalfactors and coahnerchants — nine factors
and nine merchants forming such committee.
The committee is elected by the trade. They
go out every year, and consequently two new
members are elected annually. They have
the entire patronage of the meter's office. Ko
person can be an otlicial coalmeter without
being appointed by tlie coal-committee. Thoe
were formerly several bye-meters, chosen by
tlie merchants from among their own men, as
they pleased. This practice has been greatly
diminished since April last. The office of the
coalmeter is to weigh out the ship's cargO| as
a middle -man between the factor and the
merchant The cai-go is consigned by the pit-
owner or tlie shipowner to the coalfactor.
The number of coalfai'tors is about twenty-
five. These men dispose of all the coals that
are sold in London. As soon as the fihip
arrives at Gravesend, her papers are trans-
mitted to an office appointed for that purpose,
and the factor tlien proceeds to the Cool
Exchange to sell them. Here the mci chants
and the factors assemble tliree times a-week.
The purchasers are divided into lai^ and
small buyers. Large buyers consist of the
higher class coalmerchants, and they will
sometimes buy as many as three or four tlioa-
sand tons in a-day. The small buyers only
purchase by multiples of seven — either four-
teen, twenty-one, or twenty-eight tons, as they
please. The rule of tlie mai-ket is, that the
buyers pay one half of the purchase-moucj
the first market-day after the ship is cleared,
and for the remainder a bill at six weeks is
given. After the ship is sold she is admitted
from the Section into the Pool, and a meter ix
appointed to her from the coalmeter's olfice.
Tliis office is maintained by the committee of
factors and merchants, and the masters ap-
pointed by them are registered there. Accordisg
as a fresh ship is sold, the next meter in rotation
is sent down to her. There are in all 1 70 officinl
meters, divided into three classes, called respec-
tively "placemen," " extra men," and " supema-
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
261
meraries." The placeman has the preference of
the work. If there is more than the phicemau
am do the extra man takes it, and if both
classes are occupied then the supemumerar}'
steps in. Shoold the earnings of the latter
dass not amount to 2ht. weekly, that sum is
made up to them. Before "breaking bulk,"
that i% before beginning to work the cargo of
the ship, the City dues must, under a penalty,
be iMiid by the factor. Those amount to 1«. Id,
per ton. The 1*. goes to the City, and the Id.
to the Govomment. Formerly the whole of
the due* went to the City, but witliin a short
period the odd Id. has been claimed by Go-
Temment. The coal duos form one of tlie
principal revenues of the city. The dues are
collected by the clerk of the Coal Exchange.
All tlie harbour dues and light dues are paid
by the shipowner. After the City dues have
been paid, tlie meter receives his papers and
gnes on board to deliver the cargo, and see that
each buyer registcri>d on the paper gets his
proper complement The meter's hours of
attendance are from seven to four in winter,
and from seven to five in summer. The
meter has to wait on board the ship imtil such
time as the purchasers send craft to receive
their coals. He then weiglis tliem previously
to their delivery into the barge. There are
eight weighs to the ton. The rate of payment
to the meter is l\d. per ton, and the merchant
is compelled to deliver the cargo at the rate of
forty-nine tons per diiy, making the meter's
wages amount to 0«. \\d. per day. If there
is a necesMity or demand for more coals, we
can do double that amount of work. On the
diortest day in the year we can do ninety.eight
tons.* One whom I saw said, ** I myself have
done 112 tons to-day. That would make my
earnings to-day 1 5#., but as I did nothing on
Satozday, of course that reduces them one
half:"
Upon an average, a place -meter is employed
about five days in tlie week. An extra meter
is employed about four days in the week, and
a sapemumerary about luilf his time, but ho
has alwaj'S his 25«. weekly secured to him,
irhether employed or not. Two pounds a-
wei-k would be a very fair average for the
wages of a place-meter, since the reduction
on the 1st of April. Many declare they don't
earn 3(^. a-week, but many do more. The
extra man gets very nearly the same money
u the place-man, under tlio present arrange-
ment. The supernumerary generally makes
his 90t. weekly. As the system at present
stands, the earnings of the meters generally
are not so much as those of superior mechanics.
It is an office requiring interest to obtain it :
a man must be of known integrity; thousands
and thousands of pounds of property pass
through his hands, and he is the man ap-
pomted to see justice between factor and
merchant. Before the Act directing all coals
to be sold by weight, the meter measured
them in a Tat, holding a quarter of a chaldron.
In those days a first-class meter could reckon
upon an income of from 400/. to 500/. a-year,
and the lowest salary was not under MOO/, per
annum. The meter's ofHce was then entirely
a city appointment, and none but those of con-
siderable inlluenco could obtain it. This
system was altered eighteen years ago, when
the meter's ofHcc was placed in the hands of a
committee of coalfactors and coalinerchants.
Immediately after this timo the saljudes de-
creased. The committee first aj^reed to pay
the meters at the rat<' of 'id, por ton, under-
taking that that sum should priMhice the
place-meter an income of 120/. Ono gentle-
man assured mo that ho never exceeded 114/.,
but then he was one of the juiiii)r-<. Under
the old system the meters were paid at a rate
that would have been equivuh-nt to •\d. a icm.
under the pres^mt one. In the year 1831 the
salar}' was reduced to 2c/., and on the 1st of
April in the pres»'nt year, tlie payment has
again been cut down to \\d. i)er ton. Besides
this, the certificate money, which was 2.i. per
ship, and generally anmunted to 3«>#. per
quarter, was entirely disallowed, making the
total last reduction of their wages amount to
full 30 per cent. No con'c^iJoncLing reduction
has token place in the price of coals to the
consumer. At the same time the price of
whipping has been reduced \d. per ton, so
that, within the last year, the combined fac-
tors and merchants have lowered the price of
delivery \\d. per ton, and they (the merchants
and factors) have Ix.'en the sole gainers tliero-
by. This has been done, too, while the de-
mand for coals has been increasing everj' yeor.
Now, according to the returns of the clerk
of the Coal Kxcliange, there were 3,418,340
tons of coals deliveivd in the \iOTt of Lon-
don in the year 1848, and assuming the
amount to have rj-moined the same in the
present year, it follows that the factors and
merchants have gained no less than 21,304/.
12«. Orf. per annum, and that out of the earn-
ings of the meters and the whippers.
The coalwhippers, already di.'scribed, whip
the coals by means of a basket and tackle from
the hold to the deck of the ship. The coal-
meters weigh the coals when so whipped
from the hold, pre\iously to their being de-
livered into the barge alongside. The ** coal-
backer" properly carries the coals in sacks
upon his back from the barges, when they
have reached the premises of the coal-mer-
chants, on to the wharfs.
I will now proceed to speak of
TilE C0AIJ>0RTEIlS.
CoALPOBTEBS aro employed in filling the
waggons of the merchants at their respective
wharfs, and in conveying and delivering the
coal at the residence of the customers. Their
distinguishing dress is a fautail hat, and an
outer garment — half smock-frock and half
jacket — ^heavy and black with coal dust : this
262
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
f?nrm(>nt is oft«*n left open at llie hivnst, «vspp.
cinliy, 1 am ti tld, on a >loii(]ny, when tbc pnrter
gt^uerally Iimh a clean Hliiit to display. The nar-
rative I frivo. Avill shoi^ how tiie lahonr of tliese
men is dividcfl. The men themselves have
many terms fur the same employment. The
man who drives tlie waggon I heanl styled
inditi'erently, the " waggoner," *• carman," or
*' shooter." The man who accompanies him
to aid in the delivt-iy of the coals was da-
Bcrihed to me as the " trimmer," ** troimcer,"
or ** pidl hack." There are also the " nnirfs "
and the " sifters," of w)iom a deseripcion will
be given presently. The coalportera form a
mile class ; not, perhaps, from their manners
being ruder tlian those of other classes of
lab( Miners, whose labour cannot be specified
under the descriptii)n of '* skilled," (it is, in-
deed, hut tlie exertion df animal strength — the
work of thow and mnsde). hut ftova. their
bein^' less «ylueat<Ml. I was informed that not
one muu iu six — thi^ manager in a very hirge
house in the coal-ti-mle estimateil it at but one
in eifjrht— could niail or write, however imper-
fectly. As a body, they have no fellowship or
" union " innong thems«'lves, no general sick
fund, no oi*gnnizati(>n in rules for Iheir guid-
ance as an importimt branch (numerically) of
on impoi-tant traiiic ; indeed, as it was do
Bcri))ed to ine by one of the class, " no
nothing." The conlporLers thus present a
striking contrast to the coalwhippers, who,
out of means not excelling tlioso of tlio port-
ci-s, have done so much for the sick among
them, and for the instruction of their chihln-u.
The number of men belonging to tlie l^cneftt
SiH'iety of Coahvhippers is 4-"J0 ; and tiien? are
about 200 coalwliippers belonging to nnotJier
society, that was instituted beforo the new
office. There; arc 200 more in connexion with
other offices. Thero were l.*30 sick men re-
lieved by the Coalwhippers' Society last year.
There wore 14 deaths out of tlin 4.S0 members.
Each sick man receives 1()«. a- week, and on
dentil then; is a pa\nnent of bL a man, ami *U,
iu the case of a wife. The amount of sub-
scription to tho fund is .3</. per week under
forty years of age. Ad. to fifty, 5rf. to sixty, and
above that, 0(/. On accoimt of the want of any
organization among tho coalporters, it is not
easy to get at their numbers with accuracy.
No apprenticeship is necessary fitr tlio coal-
porter, no instruction even ; so ^ng as ho can
handle a shovel, or liA; a sack of coals with
tolerable celerity, he is perfect in his calling.
ThecuncuiTent ti'Stimony of tho best-informed
parties, gave mo the number of the porters
(exclusive of those known as sifters, scurfs,
or od<l men, ) as 1500 ; that is, 1500 employed
thus : in large establishments on *' the water-
side," fire mea are employed as backers and
fillers — two to fill the sacks, and three to
carry them on their bocks from, the barge to
the waggon, (in smaller establishments tliere
are only two to cany). There are two mors
then employed to conduct the load of ooal to
the residence of the inirchaser—- the iraggoner
(or carman), and the trimmer (ny txonnoer).
Of tliese the waggoner is considered th»
picked man, for he is expected to be able to
vmta his name. Sometimes he can ^Nviter
nothing else, and more frequently not even so-
much,, carrying his name on the custmner'e
ticket ready written ; ami he hoA the case of
the horses tis driver, and freqnently as groem.
At one time, when their eamingK ipere eon-
siiierahle, til esH coalporters spent lanre mmw
in ilrink. Now their meaue are limited, and
their drunkennefie is not in excesa. The mea^
as I have said. ar& ill-infhrme(L They haT»
all a pre-eonceived notion that beer sometimes
in large quaiititi<>s (one porter said he limited
himself to a pint on hour, when ot work), ia
necessary to tliem "for snpporL" Even if
facta were brought conclosively .to bear npon
the subject to prove that so much bepr, or
any allowance of h(H>r, was injurious, it would,
1 think, be diflicult to convince the porters, for
an ignomnt man will not part with a pre-
conceived notion. I heard from one man,,
more intelligent than his fellows, that a tem-
perance lecturer oiico wi*nt among a hoily of
the cimlporters >ind t^dkud about '^alonhol"
and '* fennentutirm," and tho like, until he
was pi*onouncod either nnid or a Frenchman.
The question arises, Why is this ignorance
allowed to continue, as a reproach to the men,
to their emplt»yers, and to the community?
Of tho kindness of masters to the men, of dis-
couragcmcbt of drunkenness, of pi^rauasiona
to the men tt) care for tlie education of their
childn'u, I hiul tlio gratification of hearing
fivqueutly. liut of any attempt to establish
schools for the general instruction of the cnal-
port^'rs' childivn. of any talk of almshousee
ffir tlie recepticm of the worn-out labourer, of
any other provision for his old age, whiehi ia
always preniature through hard work,^-of any
movement fur tlie amelioration of this claat, I
did not hear. Rudo a.s these porters may be,
machines as they may be accounteil, tliey ase
tho means of wt.*alth to tht-ir employers, and
desen'e ai least some care and regard on their
part.
Tho way in which the bnigea an nnladen
to fill the waggons is tho same in tlie rivers
as iu the canals. Two men standing in the
barge fill the socks, and tliree (or two; cany
them along planks, if tlie barge be not moored
close ashore to the waggon, which ia placed as
near the water as possible. In the canals*
this work is carried on most regulariy, as the
water is not infiu<>nced by the tide, and the
work coo go on all day long. I will describe^
therefore, what I saw in the City Basio^
Regent's Canal. This canal has been opoud
about twenty years. It commenoea at the
Grand Jimctinn at Paddington; and fhUfe into
the Thames above the latnafaouae Doek. Its
course is circuitous, and in it are two tunnel*
— one at Islingt<m, three-qoarters ct a niil«
long ; the other at the Hamw Bead a.qiiait«r
LONDOS LABOVR ASD THE LONDON POOR.
2(13
of a mile long. If a merchant in the Begent'fl
Oxnal has iturchased the cargo of u eollier,
finch cargo ia whipped into the barge. For
the conilucting of Lhia ladun barge to the
Limehonse La&in of the canal, tlie meii^hant
haa to employ licensed li(;htermon, meiubei's
of the Waterman's Ck>mi»any, as none eliMi
m privileged to work on tlie river. Tlie
canal attained, the barge is taken into char^'e
by two men, who, not Ix-iiig regular " water-
men,? eontlne their luboura to the caaal.
Theee men (a steerer and a driver) convey
the barge^ — sappoM* to tlie City UaKin, Isling-
toOr whSehf OS it IB about midway, gives a cri-
tenoa at to the charge and the time when
Qfclit*r diatanoea are concerned. They go back
with aa empty barge. Each of theiie barge-
men haa 2s, a ba^ for conveyance to the
City Basin. The conveyance of tlie loaded
baiiia occupiea three hours, sixty -four tuns of
coal being an average car>,'r). Two barges
a-day, in tine weather, can be thus conducted,
giviiii; a weekly earning to oai'h uiun in full
work of 2iU. Thia is subjnrt to coHimltics and
deductions, but it in nut iny proscnt inteu-
liun to give the condition "f these biU*geiii<.'ii.
I reserve this for a future iiud more litting
occasion. In frosty weather, when the ici* has
tauaed many delays, as much as 0«. a-bur<;e
per man has been jioid ; and, I was told, hard-
<'amed money, too. A boi-ge nt such times
hos not been got into the City Hnsiu in less
than forty-eight hours. The crowded st;ite of
the canal at the whaifs at this {\\\\k\ df the
Tear, gives it the axipeiiraiice of a onnvded
tharoughfiirc, there l>eiiig but juht room for
one vesael to get along.
From the statement with which I was
lavonred by a house cuit} Liif ; on a \ eiy exteii-
hive bnidness, it appeai-s that tin* average
(■imings of the men in thi*ir oiuploy was, tlie
year through, upwards of 'i^s. 1 i-ive the
paymenta of twelve men n^gulnrly euiployed
as the criterion of their eaniin'^'s, on tlie best
paid description of coalporters' labour, for
tbiir weeks at the busies: time : —
December :22
15
November 17
i!v2l 5 5
21 17 :i
li-J 10 1
This gives an average of more thau 1/. WU, \
per man a-week fur this pori(Ml ; but the !
*^ThiipHff of trade in the sumuuT, when coals ■.
an in smaller demand, n.ilucr-s the average tu ;
the amount I have stated. In the two weeks
omitted, in the above stutenuMit, riz. those
ending December 1st and November 24th,
fourteen men had to be employed, on account
of the briskness of trade. Their joint eoni-
ings weve 301. 1'U, Hd, one week, and 3:J/. O^i. 7</.
the other.. By this firm t.'uch waggoner is paid
U a-week, and (U. extra if he " do " 100 tons ;
thtt ia, 6j. between him and tlie trimmer.
I'or avefj ton above lOO carried out by their
imiL trimmer. Id, extra is paid.
and sometimes 1:J() are carried out, but
only at a ))iLsy time ; 142 haver been carried
out, but tliut (^nly was remembered as the
f^reatest amount iit tlie wliarf iii question,
l^or each waggun sent out, the waggnner ami
the trimmer together reoi-lvo -id, lor *• bi^er
money " from their employ <.>rs. They fre-
queutly receive money (if nut drink ) li-om the
customers, and so Uie average of Ui^ss. and up-
wanLf is iniule up. I saw two waggoners
fully employed, and they fully corroborated
this statement. Such payment, however, ia
not the rule. ]Many give the waggoner 2l«.
a^week, and employ him in doing wliotevur
work may be rei^uired. A waggoner at what
he called **pix>r work," three or four days
luweek, t^tld mo he earned about 13<. on the
average.
The scurfs are looked upou as, in many
respects, the ret\ise of the trade. They uve
the men olwaj-s hanging about the wharfs,
waiting for any " odd job." They are gene-
rally coolportei-s who caimot be trusted with
full and ri'iruhu* work, who wero de^cribed to
me as •* toii;^uey, or dnmken," anxious to gi.-t
a job just to supply any pressing need, eitlier
fur drink or meat, and careless of other eoii-
sequeuces. Among them, however, are eoal-
porti^rs seeking employment, some willi ^oud
L'haifirUTs. Tliese seurfs, with the sitters,
number, I uudei*staud. more tliau TiOt) ; thus
altogether making, wiih tlio cotdhackers and
other classes of coalporters, a body of more
than -201 KJ.
1 now(M)mu tothe following statement, mode
by a geutlemiiii who for moi-e than thirty years
has betii familiar with all matters connected
with the cual-merehantN' tra<le. "1 cannot
say,' he began. **that iIh; condition of the coid-
porter ( not referring t(» his e:u'niiigs, but to
his mund and intellect uid improvement) is
much amended now, for he is about tlie biuuo
sr»rt of mi'U thai ho wjjs ihiity yours ago.
There mny lie, and 1 hav(i no doubt Lh, a greaWr
degi-ee of sobriety, but 1 fear chiefly on account
of the men's eaniin«;s brin;? now smaller, and
their havuit^ b.'ss nnans at their CA>mmand«
Thirty-tive \«"ais aj:o, before the general peace,
labourers were sciiiie, and the coidporters then
liad fidl Olid ready employment, earning from
•2/. to '61. a-week. 1 have heai*d a coali>orter
say that one week he earned 5/. ; indeed, I
liave heard st veral say so. AlYer the peace,
the supply of labour for the coal-trade greatly
increased, and thu ciailporters' camuigs fell
gradually. The men emph)yod in a gJKul
establishment thii'ty years ago, judging IVom
the ])a>-ments in unr own establishment as a
fair criterion, were in the receipt of nearly U/.
a-week on the average. At that time cool was
delivered by the chaMron. A chaldron was
composed of 12 sacks containing 3(1 bushels,
and weighing about 25 cwL ^a ton and a.
(iuarter). For the himling of the waggons a
gang of four men, called * HUers,' was, and is,
employed. They were paid It. Ad. per chal-
2(31
LOXVOX LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOH.
<lron ; that is, 4</. per man. This was for
inrasurinji: tlie coal, putting it into sacks, and
l)iitting the swks into the waggon. The men
in this gang had nothing to do with tho con-
voyance of the coal to the customers. For that
puq)oso two other men wore employed; a
* waggoner,' and a man known as a * trimmer,' or
' trDunccr,' who accompanied the waggoner, and
aided liim in carrying the sacks from the
wnggcm to the customers' coal-cellor, and in
aniingiiig the coal wht»n deliv«'r«»d, so as pro-
perly to assort tlie hnmll with the large, or
indeed making any arrangement \nth them
required by the purchaser. Tho waggoner and
the trimmer were paid I5. .'W. each p«.-r clialdron
for deliver}', but when the coal had to bo carried
up or down-stairs any distance, their charge
was an extra shilling — '2s. '6d. Many of tlio
nu-n have at tliat time, when work was brisk,
filled and drlivrred tifteen chaldrons day by
day, provMed the ilistance for d»'livery was not
veiy iiu:. Drink was sometim<'S given by tin?
cusiomoi's to the waggoner and trimmer who
had charge of the cotd sent to their houses —
IK'rhaps gf nendly giv»n ; and I believe it was
always asked for, unless it happened to be
given without asking. At that time I did not
know one tet'totidt-r ; I do not know one per-
Bonally among those parties now. Some took
the pledge, but I believe none kept it. In this
cstabli^hment wo discourage drunkenness all
that we possibly can. In 1H32, wages having
varied from the time of tho peace imtil then,
a great chongo took i)lace. Previous to that
time a reduction of -id. per ton had been made
in tlio payment of the men who filled the
waggons (tho fillers), but not in tlmt of th
waggoner or the tiimmer. The change I
xdludc to was that established by Act of Parlia-
ment, providing for the sale of all coal by the
meix'hant being by weight instead of by mea-
sure. This change, it was believed, would
benefit the public, by ensuring them tho full
quantity for which they borgiuned. I think it
has Innefited them. Coid was, mider the
former system, measured by tho bushel, and
there were frequently objtN'tions as to the way
in which the bushel was filled. Some dealers
were accused of packing the measure, so as to
block it up with lai-ge pit?ces of coal, preventing
the full space being filled with the coal. The
then Act provided that the bushel measure
should be heaped up with the coal so as to
form a cone six inches above the rim of the
measure. When the new Act came into opera-
tion tho coalportei-s were paid 10c/. a-ton
among the gang of four fillers, and the same
to the waggoner and trimmer. Before two
years tliis become reduced generally to dd. The
gang could load twenty-fivo tons a-day without
extra toil ; forty tons, and perhaps more, have
been loaded by a gang : but such labour con-
tinned would exhaust strong men. With extra
work there was always extm drink, fur the men
fancy that their work requires beer * for support.'
^ly opinion is that a moderate ollowauce of
good molt liquor, soy tliree pints n-dav \rhen
work is going on all day, is of advantage to A
coalporter. In the winter tliey fancy it neces-
sary to drink gin to warm them. At one time
all the men drank more than now. I estimate
the averoge earnings of a conlporler ftiUj
employed now at 1/. a- week. There are fiur
more employed at present than when I first
knew the trade, and the titulc itself has been
greatly extemled by tlie new wharfs on the
Regent's Canal, and up and down the river."
I liad heard fnnn so many quarters that
"beer" was a necessity of the coal-lAboarers*
work, that finding the coalwhix>pers the most
intelligent of the whole class, I thought it best
to call the men t<iget]ier, and to take their
oi)inion generally on the subject. Accordingly
I returned to the basketmen's waiting-room
at tho coalwhippers' oflic^, and, as before, it
was soon crowded. There were eighty inrescnt
Wishing to know whether the oocdbacker's
statement already given, that the drinking
of beer was a necessity of hard labom*,
was a correct one, I put tho question to the
men there assembled: "Is the drinking of
fermented liquors necessary for peifomiing
hard work ? How many present beUeve that
you can work without beer ?" Those who were
of opinion that it was necessary for the per-
formance of their labour, were n^qnested to
hold up their hands, nnd four out of the eighty
did so.
A basketman who had been woiking at the
business for foiu" years, and for two of those
years had been a whipper, and so doing the
heaviest labour, said that in the course ot the
(lay ho had been one of a gang who had
delivered as many as 189 tons. For this he
had i*equircd no drink at all ; cocoa was all he
had token. Three men in tlie room had like-
wise done without beer at the heaviest woA.
One was a coolwhipper, and had abstained for
six years. Some cUfierence of opinion seemed
to exist as to the number in the trade that
worked witlmut beer. Some said 250, others
not 15U. One man stated that it was impos-
siblo to do without malt liquor. *' One shiJimg
a day properly spent in drink would prolong
life full ten years," be soid. This was received
with applause. Many present declared that
they had tried to do without beer, and had
ii:\jiu*cd themselves greatly' by the attempt
Out of tho eighty present, fourteen had tned
tectotalism, and liod thrown it up after a time
on account of its injuring tlieir health. One
man, on the other hand, said ho had ^yen the
total- abstinence principle a fair trial for aeven
months, and hod never found himself in aneh
good health before. Another man stated, that
to do a day's work of ninety-eight tarns, three
pints of beer were requisite. All but three
believed this. Tho tlirco pints wore declared 1
to be requisite in winter time, and four pints, |
or two pots, were considered to be not too >
much in a hot summer's day. Before the 1
present office was instituted, each man, they :
J
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON I'OUiL
liOj
told me, drank half-a>piiit of gin and six pots
of beer daily. That was the average — ^many
draiik more. Then they could not do their
work 80 well; they were weaker from not
having so mnch food. The money went for
drink instead of meat They were always
qnarrelling on board a ship. Drunken men
eoold never agree. A portion of beer is good,
bnt too much is worse than none at alL" Tliis
was the unanimous declaration.
Since this meeting I have been at consider-
able pains to collect a large amount of o-ideiico
in connexion with this most important ques-
tion. The opinion of the most intelligent of
the class seems to be, thntno kind of fermented
drink is necessary for the performance of the
hardest labour; but I have sought for and
obtained the sentiments of all classes, temper-
ate and intemperate, with the view of fairly
discussing the subject. These statements I
must reserve till my next letter. At present
I shall conclude with the following stor}- of the
suffoiinga of the wife of one of the' intem-
perate class : —
** I have been married nineteen or twenty
jeazs. I was married at Teiitou, in Oxford-
shire. We came to Londou fifteen years ago.
My husband first workerl as a sa^\7er. For eleven
years, he was in the cool-trade. " He was in all
sorts of work, and for tlie last six months he
was a • scnrl' "What he eame<l nil the time I
' never knew. He gave me what he liked, somc-
\ times nothing at tdl. In May last he only gftv(>
me 2m, ^d. for the whole monlli, for myself and
two children. I buried four children. I can't
tell how we lived then, I can't express wliat
we*ve suffered, all through drink. He gave me
trenty years of misc-ry through drink. [This
Yss repeated four or five times.] Some days tliat
May we had neither bit nor sup ; the water
Tis too bad to drink cold, and I hod to live on
Yiter put through a few leaves in the teapot —
dd liraves. Poor people, you know, sir, helps
poor people ; and but for the poor neighbouns
we might have been found dead some day. He
cared nothing. Many a time I have gone
without bread to give it to tlie children. Was
he ever kind to them, do you say, sir? No ;
Ihey trembled when they heard his stop ; they
were afraid of thoir very lives, he knocked
them about so; drink made him a savage;
drink took \he father out of him." This was
Mid with a flush and a rapid tone, in strong
contrast witli tlie poor woman's generally sub-
dued demeanour. She resumed: — "Twenty
miserable years through drink! I've often
gone to bring him from the public-house, but
he seldom would come. He would abuse me,
and would drink more because I'd gone for
lum. rve often whispered to him that his
children was starving : but I durstn't say that
aloud when his mates was by. We seldom had
» fire. He often beat me. I've 9«. in pawn
pow. Since wo came to Loudon I've lost 20/.
in the pawnshop.'*
This man had died a fortnight before, hav-
ing ruptured a blood-vessel. He lay ill six
days. The parish doctor attended him. His
comrades •* gathered " for his biuial, but the
widow hod still somo funeral expenses to pay
by instalments. The room she and the
cidldren occupied wus the same as in tlie
husband's lifetime. There jyas about tlie room
a cold damp smoU, arising from l):id ventila-
tion and the chilliness of the weatlier. Two
wretched beds almost filled the jilace. No
article was worth a penny, uor could a penny
have been obtained nt u sale or a pawnshop.
The w^oman was cleanly clail, but looked sailly
pinched, miserable, and foebb;. She earns a
little as a washerwoman, imd did earn it
while her husband lived. She bears an excel-
lent character. Her repetition of the words,
^^ twenty years oj misery through drink," was
very intiful. I njfrained from a prolonged
questioning, as it seenie<l to excite her in her
weak state.
BALLAST-MEN.
HA^^^•o finishe«l with the ditFerent classes
of coal-labourers in Lomlou — the whippers,
backers, pull-backs, trimnit.'rs, and wag^jners
— I purpose now deidiiij^ witli the ballast-meUi
including the ballast-Kcttei-s, the ballast-light-
ermen, and the ballast-heavers of the metro-
polis. My reason for posing from the coal to
the ballast -labourers is, because the latter
class of the wt)rk-|ieoi)le arc suffering under
the same iniquitous ai)d peniieious system of
emplo\-ment as that from which the coal-
labourers have recently been emancipated,
and the transition will sene to show not only
the present condition of the one class of men,
but the past state (»f the other.
After treating of the ballast-labourers, I
purpose inquiring into the condition and in-
come of the stevedores, or men engaged in the
stowing or unstowing of vessels ; and of the
lumpers and riggers, or those enga^jed in the
rigging and unrigging of them. It is then
my intention to pass to the com labourers,
such as the corn-porters, corn-runners, and
tuniers, touching incidentally upon the com-
metcrs. After tliis, I mean to devote my at-
tention to the timber-labourers engaged at the
different timber-docks — as, for instance, the
Commercial, the Grand Surrey, and the East
Country Docks. Then, in due coiu^e, I shall
come to the whaii'-labourors and porters, or
men engaged at the dill'ercnt wliarfs in l/m-
don; thence I shall digress to the bargemen
and lightermen, or men engaged in the transit
of the different cargoes from the ships to
their several points of destination up or down
the river; and finally, I shall tr.at of the
watermen, the steamboat-men, and pit^r-men,
or those engaged in the transit of passenvrers
along the Thames. These, with the dock-
labourers, of whom I have before tnated, will,
I believe, exhaust tho subject of the long-
'Miii
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
shore laboforen ; moA ibe n^ole frill, I trust,
form, when campleted, sncli a body of fkets
and mformaticai, in connexion with this par-
tionlar brandi of labour, as has never before
been oolleoted. I am happy to nay, that, with
■ome few exoeptionB, i have received from the
different official gentlemen not only every cour-
tegy and consideration, but all the assistance
and co-operation that it lay in tlieir power to
afford me. Eveiy cla«is seems to look upon
the present inquiry as an important under-
taking, and all, save tlie Clerk of the Coal
£xcliaDge and the Dcpnty-Superintendcnt of
the London Docks, liave shown themselves
not only willing, but anxious, to lend a hand
towards expediting the result
Before quitting the subject of the coal-
market, let nie endeavour t(i arrive ai an esti-
mate as to the amount of wealth annually
brought into the iK>rt of London by means of
tlio colliers, and to set forth, as far as possible,
the proportion in which it is distributed. I
have alremly given some statistics, which,
notwithstanding the objections of a coal:
merchant, who, in a letter to a jounial,
stated that I had reckoned the number of
ships at twice the real quantity, were ob-
tained from, such sources, and, I may add,
with so much core and caution, as to render
them the most accurate information capable
of being procured at present on the BubjeoL
The Btatistica of the number of tons of coals
brought into the port of London in the year
1848, the number of vessels employed, of the
voyages made by those vessels cSollootively,
and of the seamen engaged in the traffic, were
furnished by the Clerk of the Coal Exchange
at the time of the opening of the new build-
ing. Had the coal-merchant, therefore, made
it his duty to devote the same time and care
to the investigation of the truth of my state-
ments that I have to the collection of them, he
wonld not only have avoided committing the
wry errors he condemns, but would hove dis-
played a more comprehensive knowledge of
his business.
In 1846 there were imported into the Loo-
don coal market 8418,840 tons of coal. These
were sold to the public at an average rate all
the year round of 22s. Qi. a ton. Hence the
sum expended in the metropolis for coal in
that year was 8,845,682/. 10s.
There are 21,600 seamen en.
gaged in the coal trade, and
getting on an average 8/. 10s.
per man per voyage. Each
of these men makes between
4 and 6 voyages in the
course of the year. Henee
the average earnings of each
man per year wUl be 16/. 18s.,
exclusive of his keep ; calcu-
lating that at 5s. per week,
or 18/. per year, we have
28/. 18s. for the expense of
each of the seamen emploTed.
Henee, as there are 21*600
sailors in the coal trade, the
total yearly cost wonld be . j6024,M
There are 170 ocsl-meters, earn-
ing, on an average, 2/. per
week, or 104/. per year each
man. This would make the
total sum paid in the year to
the cool-meters . . • 17^8i(
There are 2000 coal-whippers,
earning 15s. l^d. each per
week, or 8U/. 6s. M. per man.
Henoe the total sum paid in
the course of lost year to the
coal-whippers was . . 78,0IM
There are 8000 coal -porters
earning, on an average, 1/.
per week, or 52/. per year per
man, so that they receive on-
nually ldG,O0(
Hence the total amount paid
per yenr to the working-men
engaged in bringing and de-
liv(>ring coals in the London
market is ... • i£d76,57C
The aroa of all the coal-fields nf Great B]
has been roughly estimated at 0000 si
niile^ The produce is supposed to be 4
32,000,000 tons annually, of which 10,00
tons are consumed in the iron-works, 6,50*
tons are shipped coastwise, 2,500,000 tan
exported to foreign countries, and 11,00
tons distributed inland for miscellaneom
poses. Near upon 4,000,000 tons were hn
to London by ^ps and otherwise in the
1848, and it is computed that about <
part of this, or 500,000 tons, were
by the gas-works.
The price of coals as quoted in tine Lo
market is the price np to the time whei
coals are whipped from the ships to the
chants' barges. It indndes, Ist. the val
the coals ; 2d. the expense of transit ftm
pit to the ship; 8d. the fireight of the st
London ; 4th. the Thames' dues ; and Stl
whipping. The difference between the m
price and that paid by the consumer is :
up of the expense incurred by the ooal
chant for bugcs, wbarfiB, waggons, k<
wages, coal-porters, &&, to his profit and
In 1886 the exiienses inetirred by the
chant from the time he bought a shq^-lo
coals to the deposition of them in the «
of his customers amounted, on an avera
was said, to 7s. a ton. These expenses
prise conumssion, lighterage, porfceoige,
age, shooting, metagu, market -dues,
metage, and other items. At the present
the expenses must be considerably low«
wages of the labourers and the meters h
been lowered full 50 per cent, thoiij^ tli
mand for and consumption of coal ha
creased at nearly the same rate; indeei
law of the coal-market appears to be, tl
LONDON LABOUR AND TUE LONDON ^OOR,
267
proportion as the demand for the articlo rises,
so do the wages of the men engaged in the
supply of it ikil.
As the ballast-heavers are under the thral.
dom of the same demoralising and oppressive
system as Uiat which the coal-whippers re-
cently suffered under, it may be as weU, before
going further, to lay before the reader the fol-
lowing concise account of the terms on which
the latter were engaged before the Coal-whip-
pers^ Office was established.
Until the last fi*w years the coal-whippers
suffered themselves to be duped in an extra-
ordinary way by publicans and petty shop-
keepers on shore. The custom was, for the
captain of a cotd-ship, when he required a cargo
to be whipped, to apply to one of these publi-
caus for a gang ; and a gang was accordingly
sent from the public-house. There was no
professed or pre-juranged deduction from the
pxice paid for the work ; the captain paid the
publican, and the publican paid the coal-
whippers ; but the middleman had his profit
another way. The coal-whipper was expected
to come to the public-house in the morning ;
to drink while waiting for work, to take drink
with him to the ship, to drink again when the
day's work was over, and to linger about and
in the public-house until almost beJ-time be-
fore his day's wages were paid. The conse-
qoence was, that an enormous ratio of his
earnings went every week to the publican.
The publicans were wont to di\'ide their de-
pendants, into two classes — the constant men
and the stragglers, of whom the former were
first served whenever a cargo was to be
whipped; in return for this they were ex-
pect^ to spend almost the whole of their
spare time in the public-house, and even to
take up their lodgings there..
The captains preferred applying to the
publicans to engaging the men themselves,
becatise it saved them trouble; and because
(as was pretty well understood) the publi-
cans curried favour with them by indirect
means; grocers and small shopkeepers did
the same, and the coal-whippers had then to
bay bad and dear groceries instead of bad and
dear beer and gin. Tho Legislature tried by
varions means to protect the coal-whippers,
bat the publicans contrived means to evade
the law. At IcngUi, in J 843, an Act was
passed, which has placed tho coal-whippers
in a far more advantageous position.
The transition from coal-labour to ballast-
labour in gradual and easy, and would be even
if the labourers were not kindred in suffering.
The coal -ships, when discharged by the
wMppers, must get back to the north ; and as
there are not cargoes onongh from London to
freight them, tliey must take in ballast to
make the ships heavy enough to sail in safety.
This ballast is chiefly ballast or sand, dredgotl
op fnMD the bed of the Thames at and near
Woolwich Reach. The Trinity House takes
upon itself this duty. The ci^tain, when he
requires to sail, applies to the Ballast Office,
and the required weight of ballast is sent to
the ship in lighters belonging to the Trinity
House, the captain paying so much a ton for
it. About 80 tons on an average are required
for each vessel, and the quantity thus sup-
plied by the Trinity House is about 10,000
tons per week. Some of the ships are bal-
lasted with chalk taken from Purfleet; all
ballast taken from higher up the river than
tliat point must be supplied by the Trinity
House. When the ship reaches the Tyne, the
ballast is of no further use, but it must not be
emptied into that river ; it has, therefore, to
be deposited on the banks, where huge mounds
are now collected two or three hundred feet
high.
New places on the banks of the river have
to bo discovered for this deposit as the ballast
mounds keep increasing, for it must be recol-
lected that the vessels leave these ports — no
matter for what destination — with coal, and
may return in ballast. Indeed a railway has
been formed from the vicinity of South Shields
to a waste place on the sea- shore, hard by the
mouth of tie Tyne, where the ballast may be
conveyed at small cost, its further aecumula- I
tion on the river bank being found an incum-
brance. "It is really something more than a
metaphor," it has been said, *' to designate
this a transfer of the bed of the Thames to the
banks of the Tyne.'* We may add as another
characteristic, that some of the older ballast
mounds are overgrown with herbage. As the
vessels from foreign ports returning to the
coal-ports in ballast, have not unfrequontly to
tako soil on board for ballast, in which roots
and seeds are contained, some of there
struggle into vegetation, so that Italian flowers
not un frequently attempt to bloom in Durham,
Yorkshire, or Nortliumberland, while some
have sur>'ived the climate and have spread
around ; and tlms it is that botanists trace the
history of plants which are called indigenous
to the ballast-hills.
Before treating of the ballast labourers
themselves I shaU give a brief history of the
ballast laws.
Ships are teohuically said to be in ballast
when they sail without a cargo, having on
board only the stores and otlier articles requi-
site for the use of the vessel and crew, as well
as of any passengers who may be proceeding
with her upon tlie voyage. In favour of vessels
thus circumstanced it is usual to dispense with
many formalities at the custom-houses of the
ports, and to remit the payment of the dues
and charges levied upon ships having cargoes
on board. A foreign vessel proceeding from
a British port may take chalk on board as
ballast. Regulations have at various times
been made in different ports and countries,
determining the modes in which ships may
be supplied with ballast, and in what manner
they may discharge the same, such regulations
being necessary to prevent injury to harbours.
No. LXX.
268
LOSDON LABOUR AM) THE LOSDON POOR.
Chnrles T. published a proclamation in 1636,
ordoring that none shall bay any ballast ont
of the river Thames but a person appointed
by him for that purpose. And this appoint-
ment was sold fr»r the king's profit. Since
then the soil of the river Thames has been
vested in the corporation of the Trinity House,
and a fine of 10/. may be recovered for every
ton of ballast taken out of the river without
the authority of the corporation. Ships may
take on hoirA land-ballast ftrom any quarries
or pits east of Woolwich by paying ld» per ton
to the Trinity House. For river-ballast the
corporation are authorised by Act of Parliament
to make other charges. The receipts of the
Trinity House from tliis source were 33,001/. in
the year 1840, and their expenses were 31,622/.,
leaving a clear profit of 1960/. The ballast
of all ships or vessels coming into the Thames
must bo unladen into a lighter, and if any
ballast be thrown into the river the master of
the vessel whence it is thrown is liable to a
fine of 20/. Some such regulation is usually
enforced at every port.
Before proceeding fVirther with my present
subject, it is proper that I should express my
acknowledgments of the ready courtesy with
which the official information necessary for
the full elucidation of my subject was supplied
to me by the Secretary of the principal Ballast
Office at Trinitv House, Tower Hill. I have
always observed, that when the heads of a de-
partment willingly supply information to go
before the public, I find in the further course
of my investigations that under such depart-
ments the clamis of the labourer are not only
acknowledged but practically allowed. On the
other hand, if official gentlemen neglect (which
is to revise) to supply the returns and other
information, it is because the inquiir is un-
palatable to them, as the public may find that
in their departments the fair claims of the
labourers are not allowed. Were the poor
baUast-heavers taken under the protection of
the corporation of the Trinity House (some-
thing in the same way that Parliament has
placed the coal-whippers under the guardian-
ship of a board of commissioners) the good
done would be great indeed, and the ii^uiy
would be none : for it cannot be called an in-
juiy to prevent a publican forcing a man to
buy and swallow bad drink.
By charter of Queen Elizabeth in the 86th
year of her reign, the lastage and ballastage,
and office of lastage and ballastage, of all ships
and other yessels betwixt the bridge of the
city of London and the main sea, I am informed
by the Secretary of the Trinity Company, was
granted to the Master Wardens and Assistants
of the Trinity House of Deptford Strond.
This was renewed, and the gravel, sand, and
soil of the river Thames granted to the said
master wardens, &c. for the ballasting of ships
and vessels in the 15th year of Charles 11., and
again in the 17th year of the reign of that
monarch. This last-named charter remains
in force, and has been confirmed by Acts of
Parliament at different times ; by which Acts
also various regulations in relation to the
conduct of the ballast service, the control of
the persons employed therein, and the prices
of the ballast supplied, have been established.
The Act now in force is the 6th and 7th Vict
cap. 07.
The number of men employed in lighters
as ballast-getters, or in barges conveying it
from the dredgers, is 245, who are paid by the
ton raised.
The number of yessels entered for bfdlast
in the year 1848 was :
Colliers .... 6,480
British merchant vessels . 3,600
Aliens .... 1,054
Total vessels . 11,224
The total quantity of ballast supplied to
shipping in the year 1848 was 615,610 tons, or
thereabouts ; such ballast being gravel raised
from the bed of the river Thames and delivered
alongside of vessels, either lying in the difierent
docks or being afloat in the stream between
London-bridge and Woolwidi.
The number of vessels employed in this
service is 60, viz : —
Men.
3 steam dredging-yessels, having
8 men in each ... 24
43 lighters, having 4 men in each . 172
0 lighters, haring 0 men in each • 45
14 baizes, having 2 men in each . 2S
60 Total 269
The ballast is delivered into the vessels finom
the lighters and barges by men called ballast-
heavers, who are employed by the vessel, and
are not in the service of the Trinity House.
I now oome to the nature of the ballast
labour itself. This is divisible into three
classes: that performed by the baUast-get-
ters, or those who are engaged in raising:
it from the bed of the Thames; by the
ballast-lighters, or those who are engaged
in carrying it frt>m the getters to the sliips
requiring it; and by the ballast-heavers, or
those who are engaged in putting it on board
of such ships. The first and second of these
classes have, according to their own aceount,
** nothing to complain of," being employed by
gentlemen who, judging by the wanton neg-
lect of labouring men by their masters, so
general in London, certamly exhibit a most
extraordinary consideration and regard for
their work-people; and the change from the
indifference and callousness of the ooal-
merchants to the kindness of the corporation
of the Trinity House is most gratifyinff. The
ballast-heavers constitute an entirely different
class. They hare every one, to ft man, deep
and atrocious wrongs to complain of, such as
I am sure are unknown, and which, when once
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
200
made public, will at once demand some
remedy.
I must, however, first deal with
The Ballast-Getters.
0¥ these there are two sub-classes, viz. those
engaged iu obtaining the ballast by steam
power, and those who still procure it as of old
by muscular power.
Of seven dredging-engines employed in the
ooUeoting of ballast from the bed of the
Thames there are three, the Hercules, the
Goliath, and the Samson. These are now
stationed respectively in Barking Reach, Half
Beach near Dagenham, and the bottom of
Half-way Beach oflf Bainham. Most persons
who have proceeded up or down the Thames
will havo perceived black unshapely masses,
with no visible indications that they may be
classed with steam-vessels except a chimney
and smoke. These are the dredging- vessels ;
they are of about 200 tons burden. The
engines of the Hercules and the Samson are
of 20-horse power, — those of the Goliath are
25. When the process of dredging is carried
on, thQ use of the dredging-vessel is obvious
to any spectator ; but I believe that most per-
sons imagine the object to be merely to deepen
the tiver by removing inequalities in its bed,
and so to render its navigation easier by
equalizing its depth, and in some degrees
checking the power of cross-currents, Few
are aware that an ulterior object is gained.
I visited one of these steam-dredgers, and was
Tciy courteously shown over it. The first
feeling was an impression of the order, regu-
larity, and trimness that prevailed. In the
engineers' department, too, there was an
aspect, as well as a feeling, of extreme e^nug-
ncss, the more perceptible both to the eye and
the body from its contrast with the intense
cold on the muddy river outside, then running
down in very strong ebb. In the engineers'
department there was more than cleanliness ;
there was a brightness about the brass-handles
attached to the machinery, and, indeed, about
every portion of the apparatus at all suscepti-
ble of brightness, which indicated a constant
and systematic attention by well-skilled hands.
Each dredger carries eight men, the master
{called the captain, commonly enough, on the
river), two engineers, an engineer's assistant,
two legsmen (who attend to the ladders), and
three men for general purposes. They ore
all called engine-men. The master of the
<hiedger I ^'isited had the weather-beaten look
of the experienced seaman, and the quiet way
of talking of past voyages which is found
generally in men who have really sei-ved,
whether in the merchant service or royal
Jisvy. He resided on board the dredger with
bis wife and family, the principal cabin being
a very comfortable parlour. All the men live
OQ board, having their turns for visit to the
shore from Saturday morning, noon, or evening
(as their business permits), to Monday morn-
ing. Their sleeping-places are admirable for
cleanliness. All the dredgers are imder the
control of the corporation of the Trinity House.
They are, as it was worded to me, as strong
as wood and iron can make them. But for
secure anchorage these dredgers would soon go
adrift. Colliers beating up or down occasionally
run against the dredgers : this happens mostly
in light winds, when the masters of these
colliers are afraid to let go their anchors.
The machinery consists of a steam-engine and
spur-gcar for directing the buckets. The
application of the steam-power I need not
minutely describe, as it does not differ from
other applications where motion has to be
conmiunicated. It is connected with strong
iron beams, having cogged and connected
wheels, which when put into operation givo
upward and downward motion to the buckets.
These buckets are placed on ladders as they
are called, one on each side the vessel. These
ladders (or shafts) consist of three heavy
beams of wood, firmly bolted together and fitted
with friction -wheels. To each ladder 29
buckets are attached, each bucket holding 2^
cwt. of gravel. Each bucket is attached by
joints to the next, and a series of holes peimits
the water drawn up with the deposit to ooze
out. When tlio bucket touches the bottom of
the river it dips, as it is called. A rotary
motion being communicated, the construction
ensures the buckets being brought up fiat on
the ladder imtil a due height is attained, when
the rotary (or circular) motion again comes
into play, and the contents of the bucket are
emptied into a lighter moored alongside, and
the empty bucket is driven down to be refilled.
The contents so dra\vn up are disposed of for
ballast, which is the ulterior purpose I havo
alluded to. Upon an average the buckets
revolve once in two minutes. That time, how-
ever, varies, from the nature of the bed of the
river. The Goliath and the Samson being
fitted up with marine engines drive the fastest.
The three vessels have for the last year worked
within a circle of a mile. The quantity of
ballast raised depends upon the demand, as
well as upon the character of the deposit at
the bottom of tlie river. Between 900 and
1000 tons have been raised in 7^ hours, some-
times in a like period less than 300 tons have
been raised. The dredger I was on board of
has taken in a year from 180,000 to 190,000
tons. A stratum of mud 2 J feet had been
raised, then 3 feet of gravel, and a chalk bottom
was anticipated. In some places 15 feet have
been so cleared away to a chulk bottom. In
others 15 feet have been so worked off^, and no
bottom but gravel reached. The gravel lies
in shoals. Sometimes the dredgers come to
hard conglomerate gravel, as compact as a
rock. No fossils have been found. In a few
places a clay bottom has been met with. The
men in the dredgers are paid according to the
number of tons raised, the proceeds being
270
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
duly apportioned. They work as frequently by
night as by day, their labour depending upon
the time when an order for a supply of baUast
is receiyed. Each lighter holds 60 tons of
ballast The dredgers above bridge are the
property of individuals working with the con-
currence of the civic corporation of London.
Those below bridge are, as I have said, under
the control of the corporation of the Trinity
House. The Hercules was the first Trinity
House dredger worked by steam. Private
individuals, however, employed steam sooner
than the Trinity House authorities to draw up
materials to mix with lime for building pur-
poses. The first Trinity House steam-dredger
was started in 1827.
I had some conversation with a man em-
ployed on one of the steam- dredgers. He
described the process carried on Uiere as I
have given it, estimating the tons of ballast
raised at about 4000 a- week. He expressed a
sense of his good fortune in having the em-
ployment he had; he was well used, and
wouldn't like to change. He declined stating
his earnings (otherwise than that he had his
fair share) until he saw his master, and of
course I did not press him further on the
subject
The ballast-getters are men employed in
raising ballast from the bed of the river by
bodily labour. The apparatus by which this
is effected consists of a long staff or pole, about
thirty.flve feet in length. At the end of this
is an iron " spoon" or ring, underneath which
is a leathern bag holding about 20 cwt. The
ballast is raised on board the working-lighters
by means of this spoon. The working-lighters
carry six hands: that is, a staflkman whose duty
it is to attend to the staff; a bagman, who
empties the bag ; a chainsman, who hauls at
the chain ; a heelsman, who lets go the pall of
the winch ; and two trimmers, who trim the
ballast in the lighter as fast as it comes in.
Previous to the men getting at work, the staffs-
man takes hold of the spoon to feel whereabout
the ballast-bed lies. 'When this is found, he
puts down liis " sets," as it is termed, — that is
to say, he drives the iron-tipped spars that he
has with him in the lighter into the ground,
so as to steady the craft. This done, the staffs-
man seizes hold of the middle of the staff,
while the bargeman takes the bag and the
chainsman the chain, which is fastened to the
iron ring or spoon ; the staff is thus thrown
overboard into the water, about midway of the
lighter, and the tide carries the spoon down
towards the st^m. The staffsman then fastens
the staff to the lighter by means of the gaff-
string or rope attached to the side of the vessel.
At tlie same time the men go forward to heave
at the winch, roimd the roll of which the chain
attached to the spoon itself is wound. All the
men, with the exception of the staffsman, then
heave away, and so drag the spoon along tlie
bed of the river. "When the staffsman feels
that the bag is full, he leaves go of the gaff-
string and goes forward to heave with the men
as well. Immediately the gaff string is undone
tlie top part of the staff falls back on an oar
that projects from the after part of the vessel,
and the bag is then raised by means of the
winch and chain to the level of the gunwale
of the craft ; then the bagsman hauls it in and
empties it into the lighter, while the two trim,
mers spread the ballast discharged. The
spoon can only be worked when the tide is
nearly down, because the water would be too
deep for the set to bring tho craft steady. To
hoist the 20 cwt of ballast in the bag will
require the whole force of the six men ; and
none but the very strongest are of use. The
ballast-getters are all very powerful men ; they
are mostly very tall, big-boned, and muscular.
Many of them are upwards of six feet high,
and have backs two feet broad. ** I lifted seven
half-hundredweights with one of my hands,"
said one whom I saw. He was a man of thirty-
nine years of age, and stood half an inch over
six feet, while another was six feet two inches.
They were indeed extraordinarily fine specimens
of the English labourer, making our boasted
Life-guardsman apx>ear almost weak and effe-
minate in companson with them. Before the
steam dredging-engines were introduced, I am
informed the ballast-getters were even bigger
and heavier men than they are now. The
ballast-getters seldom or never fish up any-
thing besides ballast. Four or five years back
they were lucky enough to haul up a box of
silver plate; but they consider a bit of old
iron or a bit of copper very good luck now.
The six men generally raise six^ tons eighteen
feet high in the course of the tide, which is at
tho rate of 23,4001bs. each man in three hoars :
this makes the quantity raised per hour by
each man upwards of 7400 lbs. The price
paid is 8(f. per ton, or 2/. for sixty tons ; this
is shared equally among five of the men, who
receive 8«. a-piece as their proportion, aiid out
of this they pay 3«. firf. a tide to the stem-
trimmer, whom they employ — tho Trinity Com-
pany allowing only five nion and the ballast-
getters engaging the sixth man themselves.
Upon an average the ballast-getters do about
three loads in the week throughout the year,
— this, deducting the money paid to the sixth
man, makes the earnings of each ballast-getter
come to about 22«. throughout the year. The
staffsman is allowed 20/. a-year to keep the
craft in gear. The ballast-getters usually work
above the dredging-engines, mostly about Wool-
wich ; there the cleanest ballast is to be got
The Trinity Company they speak most highly
of; indeed the corporation are universally
spoken of as excellent masters : the men say
they have nothing to complain of. They get
their money on every Friday night, and have
no call to spend a farthing of £beir earnings
otherwise than as they please. They only
wish, they add, that the bidlast-heavers were
as weU off. " It would be a good job if they
was, poor men," say one and all.
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
871
The second class of ballast-labourers are |
The BALULST-LiaBTSBlCEN.
These are men engaged by the Trinity Com.
pany to carry the ballast in the company's
barges and lighters from the steam dredging-
engines to the ship's side. The corporation
has fifty-two lighters and fourteen barges,
all sixty-ton craft. Each lighter carries four
men, and there are two men in each barge ;
80 that altogether 108 lightermen and 28
bargemen are employed in bringing the bal-
last from the engines. These men aro not
required to have a license from the Water-
man's Company, like other lightermen and
bargemen on Uio Thames, and that is one
of file reasons for my dealing with them at
present. They form a class of labourers by
themsehres, and I treat of them here because
it appears the fittest i>laoc for a statement of
their condition and earnings. Besides the
lightermen and bargemen engaged in carrying
the ballast from the steam dredging-mncbines,
there are others employed on board what are
called the working-lighters ; these are vessels
in which ballast is got up from the bed of the
river by muscular labour. There aro ten of
these working- lighters, and six men engaged
in each, or in all sixty men employed in raising
bsllast by such means. There are three steam
dredging- engines employing each eight men,
or twenty-four in all ; so that there are alto-
ffeiher 220 labouring men engaged in the bal-
last service of the Trinity Company. Each of
the carrying lighters has a stafilsman or master
tnd three men. The hghters all carry sixty
tons of baUast, and make upon an average
between three and four voyages a-week, or
about seven in the fortnight. There is no
place of deposit for the ballast brought up the
HTcr from the engines ; it is left in the lighter
until required. The ballast chiefly consist^s of
gravel ; indeed the ships will mostly refuse
tnytbing else. When there is a plentiful
•npply of ballast they will refuse clay in par-
ticular. Clayey ballast is what is termed bad
ballast. Upon an average there are thirty
loads, or 1800 tons of ballast, brought up by
tile Ughters every day from the engines. In
the course of tho vear there are between
6SO,000 and O00,000'tons of ballast supplied
by the three steam dredging-machines. ** It is
about three-and-twenty years since the steam
dredging-engine first came out,** said the party
irho gave me the above information. "For
the last twenty years I should think the com-
pany have been raising about 500,000 tons of
gravel from the bed of tho river. Thirty years
ago I thought the ballast would soon be out,
but there appears to be little or no difference ;
and yet the shoals do not fill up again after
being once taken away. In Barking Beach
I am sure there is six feet more water now
than there was thirty years ago ; there was at
that time ft large shoal in thai part of the river,
called Barking Shelf; it was certainly a mile
long and half a mile wide. The vessels would
ground upon it long before low water. At
some tides it used to strip dry, and at low
tide generally there was about six foot of water
over it. That part of the river is now the
deepest about Barking, and as deep as the best
of places in the Thames. When I first came
to London we were prevented from getting the
ballast from anywhere else than Barking, on
accoimt of the great shoals there; but now
the great ballast-bed is between four and five
miles lower down. The river has been very
nearly cleared of shoals by the dredging-cn-
gines, from Limehouso Reach to the bottom
of Half Reach. The only shoal in Uie way of
the narigation below the Pool is what is called
Woolwich Shelf: there is indeed another shoal,
but this consists of stiflf clay or conglomerate,
and the engines cannot work through it. The
men on board the carrying-lighters are paid
5«/. a-ton for bringing the ballast from the
dredging-engines to the ships ; this is equally
dirided among the four men. The stafi'sman,
in addition to his fourth share, receives 10/.
a-year for his extra duties ; but out of this ho
has to buy oars for the boat and lighter, locks,
fenders, and shovels. Upon an average the
cost of these will be about 30*. a-ycar. Each
man's share of the sixty-ton load is 6s. 3d. ;
and there aro about seven loads brought up
by each lighter in the fortnight. Some weeks
the men can earn as much as d7«., but at others
they cannot get more than 12*. Crf. " I did
myself only two load last week," said my in-
form ant ""When there is httle or no * vent,'
as we call it, for the ballast — that is, but a
slight demand for it — wo have but little work.
Upon an average, each lighterman makes from
21a. to 225. a-week. At the time of the strike
among the pitmen in the North, the lighter-
men, generally, only did about two load a-week
throughout the year; but then the following
year we had as much as we could do. The
Trinity Company, whom I serve, and have
served for thirty years, are excellent masters
to us when we are sick or well. The corpora-
tion of the Trinity House allow the married
lightermen in their service 10*. and tho single
ones 7». 6rf. a-week, as long as they are ill. I
have known the allowance given to men for
two years, and for this we pay nothing to
any benefit society or provident fund. If wo
belong to any such society wo have our sick
money from them independent of that. The
superannuation money is now C/. a-ycar ; but
I understand," continued the man, '' that the
company intend increasing it next Tuesday.
Some of the old men were ordered np to tho
house a little while ago, and were asked what
they could live comfortably upon, and one of
the gentlemen there promised them that no
more of us should go to tho workhouse. They
do not provide any school for our children ; a
I great many of the lightermen neither read nor
I write. I never heard any talk of the company
270
LONDON JLABOUR AND THS LOJf^'
,/^OR.
dul J apportioned. They woric u finei,
night as hy day, their labonr dependinff
the time when on ordflr for % supply c^
is receiTed. Each lighter hold"
hallast. The dredgen abov
property of indiTidnils work ' ■^g^
currence of Ae dyic corf $i®f/w^^ *» **»« Trinity House Tor the quanuiy
Those lielow hndge an, ^^J^/ Deeded. If tlie ship belong to the merchant
,1 dllo^nd by the owners. The
;^'5iii]pa discharge all their cargo
-•^/ take in any ballast. The cranky-
'*^hips form the exception, and begin
about thi-ee-
requirea bal-
I agents or ser\'aut8
- . '-*>iif *"* ballast when they are i
.J^^^LtA iUschaiged. When a sliip :
^^i^it the owner or one of his agent
the control of the corr
House. The Hereu^
House dredger wr
individuals, howe'
thui the Trinity " A'^Ji^^i^.%'j bi.ve
have
niar
"^mmm were get-
^^^onlerio
f^'^rat XUtLAST-HKlTEHS.
orj
^
^ nr«5ent give but a general de-
.SJ, individual instances of opprea-
hjive sought out I must reserve for
itfi ^JmI I^«» ^'**®'* ^ ™*** heartily hope
^fts'^'^blication of tlie iniquity of which
1^ ^'^L^ {eWo'vi^ are tlio victims, will be at
l^j^iunental in putting an end to a most
li<«^'~Ullricked plan for tlie degradation and
W^fJIjiagtion of our ft-llow- creatures. The
^ I have to tell are such as must rou^
•^Jiy heart not positively indurated by the love
'T^Jin. I must, however, be here caatent,
^ J said before, with merely describing the
flvstem.
Tlio duty of the ballast-hoaycr is to heave
jnio the liolds of the ship the ballsKt brought
olongsiilo tho vessel by the Trinity-lightors
flora tho dn>dging-enginos. Tho ships tako
in ballast either in the docks or in tbe Pool.
When the sliip is cranky-built, and cannot
stand steady after a portion of her cni>:o has
been discharged, she u<*nally takes in what is
calleil shiftinj? or stillV-ning ballast. The
ballast is said to stillcn a cranky vessel,
because it has tho effect of making' her Ann
or steoily in the water. The quantity of
ballast required by cranky vessels rteiiendi*
upon the build of the ships. Sixty terns of
cargo will stiffi-n the most cranky veRS*.^l. I
am informed by those who have been all their
lives at the business, thot they never knew a
vessel, however cranky, but what fiO ^lTla'
weight wouhl stiffen her. Some vcs^jels are
so stiff.built, that they can discharge tho
whole of their cargo without taking in ruiy
ballast at nil. 'J'hese are generally ^at^iot-
tomed vessels, whereas cranky vessi-la art?
built sharp towards the keel. The collitTs
are mostly flat-bott<.^me<l vessels, and could in
calm weother return to tho north uitlimit
either ballast or cargo in them. Thus, how
service, and is lying in any of the docks, the
owner has to pay 1«. Id, per ton to the Triuity
Company for the ballast supplied: but if the
merchant vessel bo lying in the Pool, then
the price is 1«. 3<<. per ton, aud if the vessel
be a collier, the price is Is. per ton. On ap-
plication being made at the liallast Office, the
parly is supplied with a bill, specifying the
name and situation of the vessel, tlie quantity
of ballast required for her, and the imce that
bus b(M)n paid for it. Tho bill is then taken
to tJif3 Ruler's Office, where it is entered iu a
book, imd tlie ship suppHed with the ballast,
according to tho place Uiat she has on the
books. If tho weather is rough, a ship has
often to remain tliree or four days witliout re-
ceiving the ballast she wants. The apphi^tion
for ballast is seldom made directly from the
captain or shipowner himself. There are
parties living in the ueighbuurhood of ^Vap-
ping and liatcliffo who undeitake, for a certain
sum per score of tons, to have the requisite
quantity of ballast put aboard the ship. These
parties are generally either publicans, grocers,
butchers, lodging-house keepers or watermen,
and they have a number of labourers dealing
witii tliem whom they employ to heave the
ballast on board. The publicans, butchers,
grocer$i, or lodging-house-keepers, are Uie
ballast -contractors, and they only employ
tliose parties who are customei'S at their
houses. It is the owner or captain of the
vessel who contracts with these ** truckmen "
for the ballasting of the ship at a certain ])nce
per score of tons, and the tnickmen for that
sum undertake not only to procure tlie ballast
from the Trinity Company, and save tlie
owner or captain all the trouble of so duing,
but also to carry it from the Trinity-lighters ou
board the ship. The reason of the publirons,
grocers, butchers, or lodging -house-keepens
undertaking tho job is to increase the custuin
at iheir shops, for they make it a rule to em-
ploy no heavers but those who purchase their
gcKid^ frc»m them. The price paid to the>e
truck)! I en varies considerably. Their principal
prfifit, however, is maile out of the labourers
tU^y employ. The highest price paid to ihe
contniLtoi's for putting the ballast on boanl
C!>llii.'rii (exclusive of the cost of the ballast
itst'lf ) is 10«. per score tons. Many contractors
charg*? less than this — ^not a few indeed under-
take to do it for l)»., and there are one or two
who will do it for 8*. tho score. But these, T
nm infc.nned, " are men who are trjing to get
ihe work away from the other contractors."
The highest price paid to tho contractors for
i
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
278
ballasting smftll merchant vessels is Vit, per
Bcore as well. For large vessels the price varies
according to their size, and, consequently,
the number of heavers required to put the
ballast on board. The lowest price paid per
score to the contractors for small merchant
vessels is 10*. Eight or nine years ago the
price for ballasting small merchant vessels
was much higher. Then the highest price
paid to the contrtu>.tor was 1&«. Since that
time the prices both for merchant vessels and
colliers have been continually falUng. This,
I am told, arises from the number of contrac-
tors increasing, and their continual endeavours
to onderwork one another. Before the estab-
lishment of the Coal-whippers' Office, the con-
tractors for ballast were solely pubUcans ; and
they not only undertook to put ballast on
boi^ but to deliver the coals from the ships
as well. At this time the publicans engaged
in the business made rapid and large fortunes,
and soon became shipowners themselves, but
alter the institution of the Coal-whippers' Office,
the business of the publicans, who had before
been the contractors, declined. Since that
period the contracts for ballasting ships have
been undertaken by butchers and grocers, as
well as publicans, and the number of these
has increased every year, and according as
the number of the contractors has increased,
so have the prices decreased, for each one is
awdona to undersell the other. In order to
do this, the contractors have sought every-
where for fresh hands, and the lodging-house-
keepers in particular have introduced labour-
ing men firom the country, who will do the
work at a less price than those who have been
legnlarly brought up to the business : and I
am credibly informed, that whereas nine or ten
years ago every ballast-heaver was known to
his mates, now the strangers have increased
to such an extent that at least two-thirds of
the body are unacquainted with the rest.
There is treble the number of hands at the
work now, I am told, to what there was but a
few years back. The prices paid by the con-
tractors to the ballast-heavers are very little
below what the owners pay to them, indeed
some of the publicans pay the heavers the
same price that they themselves receive, and
make their profit solely out of the beer and
spirits supplied to the workmen. The butchers
and grocers generally pay the men ^d. and
some 1». in the score less than they them-
selves get ; but, like the publican, their chief
profit is made out of the goods they supply.
The lodging-house-keepers seldom contract
for the work. They are generdly foremen
employed by the publican, butcher, or grocer
eontiucting, and they make it a rule that the
ballast-heavers whom they hire shall lodge
at their boose, as well as procure their beer,
meat, or grocery, as the case may be, from the
shop of the contractor by whom they are em-
ployed. All the English ships that enter the
port of London are supplied with ballast in
this manner. The owners always make it a
rule to contract with some pubhcan, butcher,
grocer, or lodging-house-keeper for the ballast-
ing of their vessels, and it is impossible for
the ballast-heaver to obtain emplo}ment at
his calling but by dealing at the shops of
some or other of these parties. According to
the Government returns there were 170 bal-
last-heavers in the metropolis in 1841, and I
am assured that there are more than double
that number at present, or nearly 400 labourers
engaged in the business. There are now 27
publicans who make a regular business of
contracting for the supply of ballast. Besides
these there are four butchers, the same num-
ber of grocers, and as many lodging-house
keepers. Further than this, there is a fore-
man attached to each of the public-houses, or
butchers* or grocers' shops, and these foremen
are mostly lodging, house -keepers as well»
The foremen in general have the engagement
of the heavers, and the first hands they employ
are those who lodge at their houses: these
hands are expected also to deal with the con-
tractor under whose foreman they serve. The
heavers generally, therefore, are obliged to
lodge at the house of some foreman, and to
obtain their meat, beer, and grocery from the
difierent ballast- contractors, in order to obtain
work ; indeed, with the exception of clothing,
the heaver is compelled to obtain almost eveiy
article he consumes through the medium of
some contractor. The greater the number of
contractors tlie heaver deals with, the greater
is his chance of work. The rule with each
of the contractors is to give credit to the
hands they employ, and those who are the-
most in debt with them have the preference-
in labour. The butchers and grocers gene-
rally charge Id. per lb. extra for everything
they sell to the heavers, and the publicans
make it up in adulteration. Each of the-
publicans, butchers, and grocers, who make a
rule of contracting for the supply of ballast,
has, on an average, two gangs of men dealing
at his house, and if he have more ships to
supply than his regular hands are capable of
doing, then he sends the foreman to either of
the places of call where the unemployed men
wait for hire throughout the day. Each ship
requires from four to six heavers to put the
ballast on board, and the men generedly ship
about 50 tons in the course of the day. They
often do as much as 100 tons, and sometimes
only 20 in the day. The heavers are divided
into constant and casualty men.
** The constant men are the first gang work-
ing out of the public-house, or butchers ' or
grocers' shops. The constant men with the
publicans arc those that are the best customers.
" If they didn't drink," said my informant,
" they'd be thought of very little use. These
constant men make three times as much as
tlie casualty men, or, in other words, they have
three times as much to drink. Generally,
one-fifth part of what the publican'ii constant
274
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
men earn is spent in drink. The* casualty
men are those frho belong to no regular
houses ; but these, if taken on by a publican,
are expected to spend the same amount in
drink as the constant men. There are no
ballast-heavers who are teetotalers. *' Indeed
it would be madness," says my informant,
'*for a man to tliink of it^ fbr to sign the
l)ledge would be entirely to deprive himself
and his family of bread."
To complete the different classes of ballast-
labourers, I will coiiclode with the statement
of a casualty man : —
** I am about 57/' (said my informant, who
was G feet high, and looked like a man far
older than 07,) ^and have been 85 years a
ballast-heaver, with the exception of seven or
eight years, when I had the care of some horses
used in coal-waggons. When I first knew
the trade, earnings was good. I might clear
my 1^. a-week. On that I brought up four
sons and one daughter— all now married. At
that time, I mean when I first worked at
ballast- heaving, the men were not so much
employed by publicans and other tradesmen.
A gang of men could then get work on their
own account, a good deal easier than they can
get it now through the tradesmen who supply
the ballast. As the trade got more and more
into the hands of the publicans and such -like,
it grew worse and worse for such as me. We
earned leas, and were not anything like to call
fVee men. Instead of my 1^ I had to stir
myself to make 15«. or as low as 12s. a-week.
Lately I have been what is called a casualty
man. There's constant men and casualties.
Each publican has a foreman to look out, and
get men, and see after them. These foremen
•—all of them that I know of — keeps lodgers,
charging them 2s. ^d. or ds. a-week for a room
they could get but for this tie, for 2<. — ay,
that tliey could. Suppose now a publican
has a ship to supply with ballast, he acquaints
his foreman, and the foreman calls on his
lodgers, and sets them to work. These are
the constant men. They have always the first
turn out of the house. If they return from
work at 4, and there's another job at 5, they
get it. That's interest you see, sir. The
more such men earn Uiis way, the more
they're expected to spend with the publican.
It'tt only bad stuff they have to drink at a fhll
price. It's only when all the constant men
are at work, and a job must be done at once,
that me, and such as me, can get work. If I
hear of a chance of a job I call on the fore-
man. If I have money, why, I must drink
myself, and treat the foreman with a drop of
gin, or what he fancies. If I haven't the
money, I have the worse chance fur a job.
Suppose I get a job and earn 0«. out of 60
tons of ballast ; out of that 6ii. I may have 4s.,
or, at most, 4s. (Sd. to take home with me, after
paying for what I must drink at the publican's
— what Tm forced to spend. Casualty men
have sad trouble to get any work. Those that
belong to the houses have all the call. Last
week I was on the look-out every day, and
couldn't get a single job, nor earn a aingld
fkrthing. Last night I had to get a bite of
supper at my son's, and a bite of bieakfbst
this morning as well, and I had to borrow a
pair of shoes to como out in. The best week's
work I've had this winter was 1 6s. I had five
days in one ship. Por that five days I was
entitled, I fancy, to 20t., or may be 2If., eo
that the difference between that and the Ifts.
went for drink. I only wanted a pint of beer
now and then at my work — ^two or thjwe % diqr.
The worst of it is, we don't get drink at our
work so much as at the public-house we're
employed from. If we want to go home, aame
of the constant men want to haTe more and
more, and so the money goes. Other weeks
I have carried home lOt., 6s., Os., and many a
week nothing, living as I oonld. It would be
a deal better for poor men, like me, if trades-
men had nothin|^ to do wiUi ballast work. If
the men that did the work were paid 1^ the
gentlemen what wants the ballast, there might
then be a living for a poor man. As it is, it's a
veiy bad, hateftd system, and makes people
badly o£ A ballast-man may ait in a tap-room,
wet, and cold, and hongiy, (Tve felt it many a
time,) and be forced to drmk bad ata£E; wait-
ing to be paid. It always happens, unless
they're about shutting up, that we have to
wait. We have no sick-ftmd or benefit sooieties.
I declare to you, that if anything hi^pened to
me — if I was sick — I have nothing to call my
own but what I*ve on ; and not all Uiat, as I've
told you — and there's nothing but the pariah to
look to. (Here the man somewhat ahiuldered./
I pay 2s. a-week rent.
^ Then again, sir, there's the basket-men
at the docks — all the docks. TheyYe as bad
to the poor man as the publican, or worse.
The way they do is this. They're not in aqy
trade, and they make it their business to go
on board ships — foreign ships— American
generally. In better times, twenty or twenty
five years ago, there used to be Is., and aa
high as Is. td, paid for a ton from such ships
to a gang of six ballast-men. I've earned six,
seven, and eight shillings o-day myself then.
We heaved the ballast out of the lighters with
our shovels on to a stage, and firom that it was
heaved into the hold. Two men worked in
the lighter, two on the stage, and two in the
hold of the vessel. The basket-men manage
to fill the hold now by beaming the ballast up
firom the lighter in baskets by means of a
windlass. The basket-man contracts with the
captain, and then puts us poor men at the
lowest rate he can get ; he picks them up any-
where, anything in the shape of men. For
every half-crown he pays these men he'll gefc
9s. for himself, and more. An American liner
may require 300 tons of ballast, and, m^yba^
a captain will give a basket-man 8^ a-lon z
that would be 101. The basket-man. empkiys
six men, and he makes another. He never
LONDON LABOUR AM) THE LONDON POOH,
275
trorka liimself — never — not a blow : but ho <
goc3 swaggering about the ship when his men I
are at work, and he's on the look-out in tlic
streets at other times. For the 10/. he'll get
ior the 300 tonn, he'll pay his men each 2s. (id.
for GO tons, that is 3/. 155., and so there's
6/. 5«. profit for him. Isn't that a ehamc',
when so many poor men have to go without
dinner or breakfast? There's five basket-men
to my knowledge. They are making money
all oat of i>oor men that can't help themselves.
The poor sutfers for all."
In order to assure myself of the intensity
of the labour of ballast-heaving, of which I
heard statements on all sides, I visited a gang
of men at work, ballasting a collier in the Pool.
My engagements prevented my doing this
iiDtil about six in the evening. There was
a Tery dense fog on the river, and all along
its banks; so thick was it, indeed, that the
water, which washed the steps where I took
a boat, could not be distinguished, even with
the hcli> of the adjacent Ughts. I soon,
however, attained the ballast-hghter I sought
The ballast-heavers had established them-
selves alongside a collier, to be filled with
48 tons of ballast, jnst before I reached them,
8o that I observed all their operations. Their
first step was to tie pieces of old soil, or any-
thing of that kind, round their shoes, ankles,
and hair np their legs, to prevent the gravel
falling into their shoes, and so rendering
their tread painful. This was rapidly done ;
and the men set to work with the quiet ear-
nestness of those who are working for the
morrow's meal, and who know that they must
work hard. Two men stood in the gravel
(the ballast) in the lighter; the other two
stood on •* a stage," as it is called, which is
but a boarding placed on the partition-beams
of the hghter. The men on Uiis stage, cold
as the night was, threw off their jackets, and
worked in their shirts, their labour being not
merely hard, but rapid. As one man struck
his shovel into the ballast thrown upon the
stage, the other hove his shovelful through a
small porthole in the vessel's side, so that
the work went on as continuously and as
<liiickly as the circumstances could possibly
admit. Rarely was a word spoken, and no-
thbg was heard hut an occassional gurgle of
the water, and the plunging of tlie shovel into
the gravel on the stage by one heaver, fol-
lowed instantaneously by the rattling of the
Btones in the hold shot from the shovel of the
other. In the hold the ballast is arranged by
the ship's company. The throwing of the
ballast through the porthole was done with
I •* nice precision. A tarpaulin was fixed to
I prevent any of the ballast that might not be
I flung through the porthole being wasted by
I falhng into the river, and all that struck
I pQerely the bounds of the porthole fell back
I into the lighter ; but das was the merest trifle.
I The men pitched the stuff through most dex-
terously. The porthole might be six fett
t
above the stage from which they hove the
ballast ; the men in the lighter have an ave-
rage heave of six feet on to Uie stage. The
two men on the stage and the two on the
lighter fill and discharge tlieir shovels twelve
times in a minute; that is, one shovelful is
shot by each man in every alternate five se-
conds; so that every one of the four men
engaged at the work flings the height of
30 feet every minute, or 2160 feet in an hour;
and in that time, according to the concurrent
computation of the heavers, Uie four men may
easily fling in 10 tons, or 5600 lbs. a man.
The men work with the help of large lanterns,
being employed mostly by night.
I shall now state the sentiments of the men
generally, and then individually, upon the
subject of their grievances.
To be certain as to the earnings of the men,
to see their condition, and to hear from a
large number of them their own statements
as to the hardships they sufiered, and the
sums they gained, I met two bodies of the
ballast-heavers, assembled without pre.ar-
rangement. At one station 50 were present,
at the other 30. The men were chiefly clad
in coarse, strong jackets; some of them
merely waistcoats, with strong, blue flannel
sleeves, and coarse trowsers, tluck with ac-
cumulated grease from long wear. They
had, notwithstanding their privations, gene-
rally a hardy look. There was nothing
squaUd in their appearance, as in that of
men who have to support life on similar
earnings with in-door employment. Their
manners were quiet, and far from coarse.
At the first meeting 50 were present. One
man said, ** Well, I think I am the oldest
man at present, and I don't get above 5«.
a- week; but that's because I'm an old man,
and cannot work with the young ones." Upon
an average the common men earned lOf.
a-week the year through, and took home 6s.
I inquired, ^ Are you all compelled to spend
a great part of all you earn in drink with the
publican ? " The answer was simultaneously,
'* All of us— all — all ! " Of the remainder of
their earnings, after the drink deductions, the
men were all satisfied they spent so mueh,
that many only took 2s, Qd. a-wcek home to
their wives and families on an average. Last
week two earned 20«., the publican tdring 10#.
from each. Three earned 15«. ; one of these
took Is. 6d. home, the other 3«., both working
for publicans; the third, who worked for a
grocer, took home 13«.; the other 2s. being
sx>ent in tea and sugar, he being a single man.
Three earned 10». ; one, worlong for a pub-
lican, carried home 65., the diflerence going
in compulsory drink; another 45., and an-
other 5«. Six did one load of ballast, receir-
iug 7s. Qd. each for it; one took home U, lid, ;
another 6s. Od, (a private job) ; anotlier, who
did a load for 5«. 3<^., took home 2s. Sd. ; the
other two took home 5j. each. One man earned
d«., and took it all home, having worked at a
370
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
private job for a foreigner. Fifteen earned
nothing in the course of the last week. For
the last fortnight nine had earned nothing.
There were nine present that had earned
something in the last three weeks. ** The
fortnight before Ghristraas," said one, ** I
didn't earn 5s. all that fortnight.** ** Nor I, nor
I,** said several others. On being asked, ** Are
von compelled to spend half of yonr earnings
in drink?" there was a general cry of,
** More than that, sir; more than that.** I
asked if men were forced to become drunkards
under this system; there was a general ciy
of, *< We are ; and blackguards, too." Seven-
teen were married men. Of tJiem, 3 had no
children ; 3 had one child ; 4 had 2 children ;
2 had 3 ; 3 had 4 ; one had 0 ; one had 6.
The men all said, that to get away firom the
publican would be *' a new life to them —
all to their benefit — no force to waste money
in drink — and the only thing that would do
them good." Many threw away the drink
they had from the publicans, it was so bad ;
they drank Thames water rather. They were
all satisfied ** they earned 10s. a-week the year
through, spending of that sum what they mutt
spend, and what they were induced to spend,
ffom 5s. to 7s. Oi. a-week." <* Another thing/*
they said, *' if you get a job, the publican will
advance Is. — ^now and then he may. They hate
to give money ; there's tmst for as much grog
as you like." All hailed with delight the
least possible chance of being freed from the
publican. One man said he was compelled
often enough to pawn something of his own or
his wife's to go and spend it at the public,
house, or he would have no chance of a job.
All declare ** such a system never was known
to have been carried on fbr years." Many
said, ** We shall be discharged if they know
we have told you the truth." They stated
that the ballast-heavers numbered between
300 and 400. There were OO craft, each re-
quiring 4 heavers ; and many men were idle
when all the others were at work. Thirty were
present when I counted the other meeting.
A man said there might be three times that
number looking for work then, and as many
at work belonging to that station alone. In
1841 the census returns showed that there
were 170 ballast-heavers ; the men assembled
declared that their numbers had more nearly
trebled than doubled since then. Within the
last two or three years many new hands had
got to work, on account of the distress in Ire-
land. The men agreed with the others I had
seen that they earned, one week with another,
10s., taking home but 5s. at the outside, and
often only 2s. 6<^ In answer to my questions
they said, the winter is the best season ; the
trade is veiy slack in summer. Earnings in
winter are pretty well double what they are in
summer. Many agricultural labourers work
among the heavers in winter, when they can-
not be employed on Uie land. Of this body
all said they were sober men till they took to
ballast-heaving, and would like to become sober
men again. (A general a.ssent) Three of
the men had tiJcen the pledge before becoming
ballast-heavers, and were obliged to break it
to get work. They had to drink five pots of
beer, they declared, where, if they were free
men, they would only drink one. When asked if
the present system made drunkards, they an-
swered with one voice, ** All ; eveiy ballast-
heaver in it." Twenty were married men.
All their wives and children suffered (this was
affirmed generally with a loud murmur), and
often had nothing to eat or drink while their
husbands had but the drink. It was com-
puted (with general concurrence) that 150
ballast-heavers paid foremen for lodgings, not
half of them ever seeing the bed they paid for.
About twelve years ago they could earn twice
or three times as much as they can now ; but
prices were higher (12s. per score, for what is
now 8s.), and the men were far less nume-
rous. The following is a precise statement
of the sums to which each ballast-heaver pre-
sent was entitled, followed by the amoant he
had carried home the week before, after pig-
ment of his compulsory drinkings, and of vhift
he might be induced to drink at the house of
his employer while waiting to be paid >—
Earned. i
TookhonMk
£0 12
0
JBO 7 0
0 7
0
0 3 6
0 15
0
0 0 0
0 12
0
0 6 0
0 13
0
0 4 0
0 11
0
0 5 0
0 5
0
0 2 0
0 8
0
0 5 0
0 9
6
0 5 0
1 0
0
0 10 0
0 12
0
0 8 0
1 0
0
0 0 0
0 12
0
0 4 0
0 15
0
0 0 0
0 15
0
0 8 6
0 16
0
0 0 0
0 15
0
0 5 0
Nothing
Nothing
ff
n
n
*i
n
»»
0 12
0
0 2 6
0 0
0
0 5 0
1 0
0
0 4 6
1 0
0
0 10 0
0 10
0
0 3 0
0 10
0
0 5 0
0 12
0
0 9 6
0 8
0
0 3 5
0 14
0
6 9 0
jei6 13 0
£7 7 0
This statement shows, out of lis. l}rf. earn-
ings, a receipt of less than 5s. a-week.
According to the returns of the Trinity
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
«77
House, there were 015,619 tons of ballast put
on board 1 1,234 ships in the jear 1848. The
bollRst-heavers are paid at the rate of (Sd. per
ton for shovelling the ballast out of the Trinity
Company's lighters into the holds of vessels.
Hence, the total earnings of the ballast-heavers
in that year were 15,390/. 95. G(/. And calcu-
lating two-thirds (the men say they always get
rid of a half^ and often three -fourths, of their
earnings in drink) of this sum to have been
spent in liquor, it follows that as much as
10,200/. 0«. id, went to the pubhcan, and only
5,130/. 3s. 2d. to the labouring men. Accord-
ing to this estimate of their gross earnings, if
we calculate the body of the ballast-heavers
fts numbering 350 men, the average wages of
the class are about 16s. 6J. per week each
man; or if we reckon the class at 400, then
the average wages of each person would be
about 14s. 0^. per week. From all I can learn
this appears to be about the truth — the earn-
ings of the men being about Ids. a-week, and
their real income about 5s.
The men shall now speak for themselves.
The first that I saw were two of the better
class of foremen, who volunteered to give me
an account of the system.
** I am a foreman or ganger of the bollast-
heavers," said one. " I work imder a man who
is a publican and butcher; and I also work
under another who is only a butcher. I, morc-
orer, work under a grocer. I engage the
di^rent gangs of men for the parties under
whom I work. I also pay the men. The
publican, butcher, or grocer, as the case may
ne, agrees to give me 9s. a score tons. The
ibremen often give the men the same money
as they themselves receive, barring a pot of
beer or a quartern of gin that they may have
oat of the job. Some foremen take much
more."
Another foreman, who was present while
I was taking the statement of this man,
here observed, that *'Many foremen claim
tow-tow, or a • fifth-handed' proportion — that
is, they will have 10s. when the working men
have only 5s. There is a great deal of impo-
sition on the working-classes here, I can assure
you; the general thing, when we go to a job
out of a public-house is, that the publican ex-
pects the men to drink to the amount of 4s.
out of every 1/., and Os. out of every 30s. that's
coming to them — that is, one -fifth part of the
men's money must be spent in liquor. The
drink is certainly not the best ; indeed, if there
is any inferior stuff they have it: it's an obliga-
tion on them that they drink. If they refuse
to drink, they won't get employed, and that's
the plain truth of it. Oh, it's long wanted
looking to ; and I'm glad at last to find some
one inquiring into it. If they went to get the
regular beer firom the fair public-houses they
'Would have to pay 3i. a pot for it; and at the
contracting publicans' they must give 4</. a pot,
^d have short measure, and the worst of stuff
too. Every six pots of beer they give to the
men is only five pots fair measure ; and the
rum they charge them 2d. halt'-a-pint more
than the regular public-houses would, and far
worse rum into the bargain. Besides the
profit on their drink, some publicans charge
(Sd. per score tons as well. Out of the money
coming to the men after the pubhcan has
been paid his score, many foremen claim one-
fifth part over and above their regular share ;
or, in other words, the foremen takes two
shares, and the men only one each. When
the men have been paid, the publican paying
them expects them to spend a further sum in
drink, looking black at the man who goes
away without calling for his pint or his pot,
and not caring if they drink away the whole
of their earnings. There's a good many
would be glad if the men sat in their
houses and spent their last fai thing, and
then had to go home penniless to their wives
and families."
" I am a * ganger' to a butcher as well as a
publican," said one of the foremen. " His
practice is just the same as the publican's.
He receives 10s. per score tons, and pays me
for the men 9s. The men and myself are all
expected to spend about one-half of our earn-
ings with the butcher in meat. He charges
Q\d. per lb.; and at other houses, with ready
money, I and the men might get it for 4</. as
good. His meat is at least one-third dearer
than other butchers'. I am also ganger to a
grocer, and he gets about the same profit out
of the men he employs — that is to say, the
articles he supplies the men with are at least
one-third dearer than at other shops. If any-
thing, he makes more out of the men tlian the
butcher; for if any man goes a score (which
he always encourages) he stops the whole out
the man's earnings, and often leaves him with«
out a penny after the job is done. "VNTien the
publican, grocer, butcher, or lodging-house
keeper has a contract for ballast, he directs
the foreman working under him to get toge-
ther the gang that regularly work from his
house. This gang are men who always deal
at the shop, and the contractor would dismiss
me if I was to engage any other men than
those who were his regular customers. Many
a tunc a pubhcan has told me tliat some man
was a good, hard drinker, and directed me to
engage him whenever I could. If a man sticks
up a score, he also tells me to put him on first
of all: tlie grocer and the butcher do the
same. This system is the cause, I know, of
much distress and misery among the men;
the publicans make the men drunkards by
forcing them to drink. I know many wives
and children who starve half their time through
it. They haven't a bit of shoo or clothing,
and all through the pubhcan compelling the
men to spend their earnings in drink. After
the gang is paid, at least three out of the four
get drunk ; and, often, the whole four. Many
a time I have seen the whole of the men reel-
ilH
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
iog home without a penny to bless themselves,
and the wife and children have to suffer for all
this ; they are ill-treated and half-starved :
this I can safely say firom my own know-
ledge.**
I next saw two men, who stated that they
were oppressed by the publican, and the fore-
man eXao, The first said, " I work under a
publican, and have to pay the foreman one-
fifth of my earnings ; I only have fourpenco
oat of evexy shilHng I earn, and I must be a
sobor man indeed to get that Both the pub-
lican and the fureman get eighti>ence out of a
shilling, and make their money out of my
sweat. Nine years ago I was left, to my sor-
row, with nine motherless children, and I am
the slave of the publican. He is my destruc-
tion, and such are my sufferings, that I don't
care what I do if I can destroy the system ;
I shall die happy if I can see an end to it I
wonld go to l)ed supperless to-night, and so
should my cliildren, if I could stop it. After
I have had a job of work, many's the time I
have not had a penny to take home to my
children, it has all pone betwixt the fon'ninn
and the publican ; and what is more, if I had
brought anything home I should have stood a
worse chance of work the next day. If I had
gone away with sixpence in my pocket, the
worit that should have come to me would have
gone to those who had spent all in the house.
I can solemnly say that the men are made
regular drunkards by the publicans. I am
nine-and-twenty years dealing with this op-
pression, and I wish from my heart I could
see an end to it, for the sake of my childnm
and my fellow -creatures* children as well.
But I suffer quite as much from the foreman
as I do from the publican. I am obliged to
treat him before I can get a job of work. The
man who gives him the most drink he will
employ the first Besides this, the foreman
has two-fifth part8 of the money paid for the
job ; he has twice as much as the men if he
does any of the work ; and if he does none of
the work he takes one -fifth of the whole
money : besides this, the men do three times
the foreman's labour. If I could get the full
valueof my sweat, I could lay by to-morrow, and
keep my family respectably. In the room of
that, now, my family want bread often — worse
luck, for it hurts my feelings. I have been
idle all to-day ; for hearing of this, I came to
make my statement, for it was the pride of
my heart to do all that I could to put an end
to the oppression. The publicans have had
the best of me, and when the system is done
awfly with I shan't be much the better for it.
I have been nineand-twenty years at it, and
it has mined me both body and soul ; but I
say what I do for the benefit of others, and
those who come after me.**
The other man said that he worked under
a publican, and a grocer as well, and lodged
with a foreman. " I pay 2*. a week for my
lodgings," he said; "there are two beds in
the room, and two men in each. The rooni
where we all sleep is not more than lerai feet
long by five feet wide, and barely aeren feet
high. There is no chimney in it It is a
garret, with nothing in it but the two beds.
There hadn't need be much more, for it woaldn*t
hold even a chair besides. There's haid]y
room, in fact, for tlie door to open. I find it
very close sleeping there at night-time, with
no ventilation, hut I can't help myselfl I stay
there for the job of work. I must stay ; I
shouldn't get a day's work if I didn't The
lodgings are so bad, I'd leave them to-morrow
if I could. I know I pay twice as much as I
could get them for elsewhere. That's one
way in which I, for one, am robbed. Besides
this, I am ohli<.'ed to treat the foreman ; I am
obliged to give him two glasses of rum, as
well as lodging at his house, in order to get
employment I have also to drink at the
public-house ; one-fifth of my money is kept,
first and foremost, by the publican. That
goes for the compulsory drink — for the swash
which he sends us on board, and that we
think the Thames- water is sweet and whole-
I sonic to it. It is expressly adulterated for
I our drink. If wo speak a word against it we
j should be left to walk tho streets, for a week
' and more forward. Kven if we were known
to meet a friend, and have a pint or a pot in
another public-house, we should be called to
on account for it by tho publican we worked
under, and he would tell us to go and get
work where we spent our money; and, God
knows, very little money we would have coming
out of his house after our hard sweat After
tho compulsory drink, and the publican has
settled with us, and his fifth part of our hard-
earned money for the swash — it's nothing
else — that he has given us to drink, tlten I
should be thought no man at all if I didn't
have two pots of beer, or half-a-pint of gin, so
that I would count mysolf very lucky indeed
if I had a couple of shillings to take home,
and out of that I should have to spend two-
thirds of it to get another job. I am a married
man, and my wife and three children are in
Ireland. I can't have them over, for it Ls as
much as I can do to support myself. I came
over here thinking to get work, and to send
them money to bring them over after me, but
since I have been here I have been working
at the ballast-work, and I have not been able
to keep myself. I don't complain of what is
paid for the work ; the price is fair enough ;
but we don't get a quarter of what we earn,
and the Irish ballast-heavers suffer more hero
than in their own country. When I coiue
over here I had a good suit of clothes to my
back, and now Tm all in rags and tatters, and
yet I have been working htuxler, and earning
more money, that I did in all my life. We ak
robbetl of ail we get by the foremen and publi-
cans. I was eight years a teetotaler before I
went to ballast-work, and now I am forced to
be a drunkard, to my sorrow, to get a job oi
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
270
woik. Mj wife and children have a bit of
lund in Ireland to keep them, and they're
badly off enough, God knows. I can neither
hel^ them, nor send monej to bring them
over to me ; nor can I get oyer to them myself.
The grocers whom we work nnder rob us in
the same manner. I have worked under one.
He supplied bread, butter, tea, sugar, coffee,
candles, tobacco, cheese, <fec. It is a larger
kind of chandlers' shop. He charges us b\d,
iot the same bread as I can buy for ^\d. at
other shops. The tea, sugar, and other
articlee he suj^plies us ^ith are at the same
rale ; they are either worse or dearer than at
oiher shops. They generally manage to get
A AfUi part of our earnings wherever we go ;
but the grocers are best of all, for they don't
ruin our health, as what they give us don't
make us sick. I work for these two houses
because the foreman that I lodge with has
work out of both houses, and we are obliged
to deeJ at the houses that he works under ; if
we didnt we shouldn't get the job, so that if
we are not robbed by the publican we are by
the grocer. They wUl have it out of the poor
hard-working man, and the foreman must
have the gain out of it as weU. I only wish
to God it was done away with, for it is down-
right oppression to us dl, and if I never have
another stroke of work I will strive all I con
io have it done away with for the sake of my
fellow-men.
After these two cases came one who said, —
** I have been three years a ballast-heaver.
Just before that I came to this country. When
I came I got to be a lodger with a foreman to
a publican. I paid him 2j. ^d, a- week. My
family, a wife and two children, came over
when I had got work as a ballast-heaver. I
couldn't take them to the lodgings I then
had ; they were all for single men : so I had to
take another place, and there I went to live
with my family ; but to keep my work I had
to pay the foreman of the publican — him
that lets these lodgings to the ballast-heaver —
2«. 6d. a-week all the same as if I had been
living there. That I had, and I had to do it
for two years. Yes, indeed. I didn't earn
enough to pay for two lodgings, so two or
three months back I refused to pay the 2s. Qd,
a-week for a place I hadn't set my foot in for
two years, and so I lost my work under that
foreman and his publican. If me and my
children was starving for want of a bite of
bread, neither of them would give mo a far-
thing. There's plenty as bad as them, too,
and plenty used like me, and it's a mur-
dering shame to tax poor men's labour for
nothing.'*
This man reiterated the constant story of
being compelled to drink against his will,
hating the stuff supplied to him, being
kept for hours waiting before he was paid,
and being forced to get drunk, whether he
would or no. .The man also informed me
that he now works under a butcher, who
pays 8s. a score to the hands he employs,
he (the butcher) receiving from the captain
10s.
" Suppose," he said, " I have a 00-ton job,
I'd be entitled to 7s. %d, without beer, or
such-like ; but under this butcher I get only
5s. 3<i., and out of that 5s. d<i.— that's all I
get in hard money — I'm expected to spend
4s. or thereabouts in meat, such as he chooses
to give. I have no choice; he gives what
he likes, and charges me Of<i. a-pound for
what I could buy at A.d, in a regular way.
Very inferior stuff he keeps. Working under
a butcher, we must ail live on this poor meat
We can't afford bread or vegetables to it."
This same butcher, I was afterwards in-
formed, had been twice fined for using false
weights to customers, such as the man whose
statement I have given; he even used wooden
weights made to look like lead.
The following is an instance of the injustice
done to the men by those who contract to
whip rather than to heave the ballast on
board.
" I now work," said the man, whom I was
referred to as an exponent of the wrong, " for
Mr. , a publican who contracts to supply
ships with ballast by the lump. Hell con-
tract to supply a ship with edl the ballast
she'll want by the lump — that is, so much
money for all she wants, instead of so much
by the ton ; or he may contract with a ship
at 2s. Qd, a- ton. We — that is a gang of
eight men — may put two loads or 120 tons
on board in the course of a day. For those
120 tons he will receive 120 half-crowns,
that's 15/. For putting in those 120 tons we —
that is, the eight ballast-heavers employed —
receive 2s. Qd. a-day of 12 or 14 hours ; that
is 8 half-crowns or 20 shillings, with 3s. 6</.
a-day for a basket-man, in addition to the
eight, so leaving the publican a profit of
13/. 10s. 0</." I could hardly believe in the
existence of such a system — yielding a mere
pittance to the labourer, and such an enor-
mous profit to the contractor, and I inquired
further into the matter. I found the state-
ment flilly corroborated by many persons pre-
sent ; but that was not all I learned. When
the men, by incessant exertion, get in 120 tons
in a day, as they often do, nothing is charged
them for the beer they have had, four or five
pints a-day each ; but if only 60 tons be got
in, as sometimes happens, through the wea-
ther and other circumstances, then the men
employed on the half-a-crown a-day must pay
for their own beer and pay their private scores
for treating a friend, or the like. " There's no
chance of a job," said my informant ; " not a
bit of it." He continued : *• Very bad drink it
is — the worst — it makes me as sick as a dog.
There's two brothers there what they cidl
blood-hounds ; they're called so because they
hunt up the poor men to get them to work,
and to see that they spend their money at
their employer's public -house when work's
280
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
done. If you don't spend somethinff, no bread
to cut the next morning — ^not a bit of it —
and no chance of another job there. He
employs us ballast-heaTers, when we are not
at the ballast, in backing coals into the
steamers."
I have given the statement of a ballast-
heaver as to the system pursued by those
whom he called basket-men. The employer
here alluded to is one of that cla.ss, the dif-
ference being, that the ballast-heavers shovel
the ballast out of the lighter on to the stage,
and from the stage through a port-hole into
the hold. Four men are thus employed, two
on the lighter, and two on the stage. "With a
large ship five men are employed, and two
stages. When the basket-man or the man
contracting by the lump is employed, this
process is observed : — There are two men in
the lighter alongside the vessel to be bal-
lasted, whose business it is to fill five baskets.
There are five men at the winch aboard
ship employed hea^•ing up these baskets,
and a bosket-man to turn them over and
empty out their contents.
To ascertain that there was no provident
fund — no provision whatever for sickness — I
investigated the case of a man who, in conse-
quence of illness occasioned by his trade, was
afflicted with a pulmonary complaint This
man was formerly one of the wine-cellarmen
in the London Dock ; he was then made a
permanent man at the St. Katherine's Dock,
and was dismissed for having taken a lighted
pipe in while at his work; and for the last
fourteen years and upwards he has been a
baUast-heaver. I now give his wife's state-
ment : — ** My husband has been ill for three
months, and he has been six weeks in Guy's
Hospital, and I am afraid hell never get
i out again, for he kept up as long as ho could
for the sake of the children. We have five at
home; one of them (twelve years old) I hope
to get to sea, having two older sons at sea,
and being the mother of twelve children alto-
gether. I will tell vou what led to my poor
husband's illness ; ne was a kind husband to
me. I consider it was his hard work that
made him ill, and his not getting his rights —
not his money when entitled to it. After
doing a heavy day's work he had to go and sit
in a cold taproom, drinking bad beer ; but it
wasn't beer — murk, I call it — and he had to
wait to be paid, ay, and might have had to
wait till the day after, and then come home
cold and have to go to bed without a bit of
victuals. His illness is owing to that; no
horse could stand it long. Ballast-men are
worse than slaves in the West Indies. When
at work he earned what the others did. He
only drank what he couldn't help — the worst
of stuff. No drink, no work. Six weeks ago
she went to the hospital, I conveying him.
When I rrtumed home I found three strange
men had turned my four children into tlie
street, doing it in a brutal way. I rushed
into the house, and one said, < Who are you?'
I seized the fellow who said this by the hand
kerchief, and put him out One of them said.
* Be off, you old Irish bag, you have no busi-
ness here ; we have possession.* When I saw
the children in the street, passion made me
strong, and so I put him out The collector
of the rent, who employed the broker, is a
publican, for whom my husband worked as
a ballast-heaver tmtil he was unable to wock
from illness. I was given into custody for an
assault, and taken before Mr. Yardley. He
considered the assault proved, and as an
honest woman I couldnt deny it, and so I had
fourteen days with bread and water. The
children were placed in the workhouse, where
they were well treated. I was very glad they
were so taken care of. As soon as I got
out I went to see about my children; ^at
was the first thing I did. I couldn't rest till
I did that I brought them home with me,
though it was only to bread and water, but I
was with them. I only owed about 19<. rent,
and had been four years in the house at the
time the publican put the broker in. We
paid 6<. td, a- week ; it wa^ no use asking
such a man as that any mercy. He was in
the habit of employing ballast-heavers for
many years; and if that doesn't harden a
man's heart, nothing will. In general these
ballast publicans are cruel and greedy. At
present I go out washing or charing, or doing
anything I can to maintain my children, but
work's very slack. I've had a day and a-half this
fortnight earning 2s. 6<^., that's all for a fort-
night; the parish allows me four loaves of
bread a -week. The children, all boys, just
get what keeps a little life in them. Thej
have no bed at night, and are stan-ed almost
to death, poor things. I blame the system
under which my husband hod to work — hi*
money going in drink — for leaving me desti-
tute in the world. On Christmas-oay we lived
on a bit of workhouse bread — nothing else,
and had no fire to eat it by. But for the
money gone in drink we might have had a
decent home, and wouldn't so soon have come
to this killing poverty. I have been tenderly
reared, and never thought I should have come
to this. May God grant the system may be
done away with, for poor people's sake.**
I now give the statement of two women, the
wives of ballast-heavers, that I may fdither
show how the wives and families of these men
are affected by the present system,
" I have been 11 years married,** said one,
*' and have had five children, four being now
living."
The other wojnan had been married 23 years,
but has no children living.
" Wo are very badly off," said the woman with
a family, " my husband drinking hard. Wlien
I first knew him — ^when we were sweethearts in
a country part of Ireland — he was a farm-
labourer and I was a collier's daughter, he wis
a sober and well-behaved man. Two years after
LOKDOir LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
281
VB vere mazried, and he was a sober man those
tvo yean stilL We came to London to better
onnelTea, worse Inck. The first work he got
was hallast-heaYing. Then he was obligated
to drink or he couldn't get work ; and so, poor
nan, he got fond of it. This winter oft enough
he brings me and the children home Zs. or
Is. 6^ after a job ; and on that we may live
for two or three days, — we're half starved, in
coime. The children have nothing to eat.
If a enongh to tear any poor woman's heart to
pieces. What's gone into the publican's till
would get Uie children bread, and bedding.
and bits of clothes. Nothing but his being
employed at ballast-heaving made him a
drunkard, for he <« a drunkard now. He often
comes home and ill-uses me, but he doesn't ill-
use the childr^i. He beats me with his fists ;
he strikes me in the face ; he has kicked me.
When he was a sober man he was a kind, good
husband ; and when he's sober now, poor man,
he's a kind, good husband still. If he was a
sober man again with his work, Td be happy
md eomfiiftable to what I am now. Almost
all his money goes in drink."
** We can't get shoes to our feet," said the
•eoond woman.
••When my husband is sober and begins to
thmk," (continued the first,) **he wishes he
could get rid of such a system of drinking, —
he really does wish it, for he loves his family,
but when he goes out to work he forgets adl
that iVa just the drink that does it. I would
like him to have a fair allowance at his work,
herequireeit; and beyond that it's all waste
and sin : but he's fbroed to waste it, and to run
into sin, and so we all have to suffer. We are
often without fire. Much in the pawn-shop
do yoa say, sir? Indeed I haven't much
oof
* We," interposed the elder woman, "haven't
a stitah bat what's in pawn except what wouldn't
be taken. We have 6O5. worth in pawn al-
together— all for meat and fire."
** I can't, I daren't," the younger woman said,
"expect anything better while the present
sjstem of woric continues. My husband's a
dave, and we suffer for it"
The elder woman made a similar statement.
After his score is i^aid, she said, her husband
hsfl brought her 4j., 3s., 2s., Is., and often
nothing, coming home drunk witli nothing
at all. Both women stated that the drink
made their husbands sick and ill, and for
sickness there was no provision whatever.
They could have taken me to numbers of^
women situated and used as they were. The
rooms are four bare walls, with a few pieces
of furniture and bedding such as no one would
give a penny for. The young woman was
perfectly modest in manner, speech, and look,
and spoke of what her husband was and still
might be with much feeling. She came to me
with a half-dad and half-famished child in
her arms.
I then took, for the sake of avoiding repe-
tition, the statements of two ballast-heavers
together — constant men — working under dif-
ferent publicans. The account they gave me
of the way in which the publicans contracted
to ballast a ship was the same as I have given
elsewhere.
" I have been twenty years a ballast-heaver,"
said one, " and all that time I have worked
for a publican, and haven't a coat to my back.
Twenty years ago the publicans had the same
number of hands, but had more work for
them, and I might then earn 20s. a-week;
but I couldn't fetch that home from the pub-
lican. He expected me to spend one-half of
my earnings with him ; and when I left his
house dnink, I might spend the other half.
I've dnmk gallons of diink against my will.
I've drunk stuff that was poison to me. I
turned teetotaler about six months ago, and
the publican, my employer, sacked mo when
he found it out, saying, * He'd be d d if
he'd have such mon as mo — he didn't make
his living by teetotalers.' "
** Yes," added the other man, " and so my
publican told me ; for I turned teetotaler my-
self somewhere about sevon years ago, and
took the pledge from Father Mathcw in the
Commeraal-road. The publican told me, that
if Father Mathew chose to interfere with
me, why Father Mathew might get employ-
ment for me, for he — that's the publican- —
wouldn't. So I was forced to break my pledge
to live — me and my youngsters — I had six
then, and I've buried two since."
** Work," resumed the man who first gave
me the statement, " keeps getting worse. Last
week I carried only 85. home, and if I'd got
paid by the captain of the ship for the
amount of work I did, and on tlie same terms
as the publican, I should have taken home
at the very least 16s. The publican that
employs us gives us only 8s. a-score, and
receives 10s. from the captain. All the pub-
licans don't do this ; some give what they get
firom the captain, but some publicans takes
two-thirds, and that's the truth. (The second
man sissentod.) One week with another I've
taken homo, this winter, fVora 12s. to 13s.,
and but for this shameful starvation system,
having to work for a publican's profit, and to
drink his drink, I'd take home my 20s. every
week. It makes a man feel like a slave ; in-
deed, Pm not much better. We should be
in heaven if we got away from the publican
or butcher either; it's compulsion one's life
through. Some of the publicans have as many
as sixty single men lodging in their houses,
paying half-a crown a-week ; ay, and men
that don't lodge with thcra, when the house is
full, must pay half-a-crown all the same, to
get a job of work, as well as paying for the
places where they do lodge."
The first man continued : —
" The gin and rum is the worst that can
be supplied ; but we must drink it or waste
it. We often spill it on the ballast, it's
280
done. If you dn^**
to oat the ne*
and no char
employs nil *
at the baJ'
ateamen."
I haTT
heaver
LmmowL^^
^M^Jxm^ooB.
^0^>Mft^ ^' The Ugger room may be 1 6 feet
,:i '■^^ j*^jfJO; tha amaller i£out a quarter that size.
'' ' '^l^^f^ eamiot torn in it — the bed cannot be
; ,AV
..gS^2^r&w.urd
:V-./V*£j "When we
**^~' ittiff without
'^ftS
' /**" *^«^ to put my aticlca m
'^'rn *^f^«d Jeft — for 1 was beUer
•j^ 9^ A I iras always a ballast- heaver
Jjf^^ '^SSd f*>' *^® **"* publican four-
^' " " bl^ue
off-
^CJif »an, a lodger, will go into a pub^
i^W^j call for 1«. wortli of rum, and
i^^fjican will call me a Kcoly fellow; if 1
***/jo tlie same; tliat will be when Vd
'Slor he without his rum, if I got it for
'^jiDg." One publican (the men gave me
^j account concurreutly, oud it was (nUy
^pgnned by a host of others,) married the
fiifce of a waterman employed to pull the
liifbour- master about the river. He kept a
Aublic -house, and carried on the system of
jOHJKt!r9 for ballast-heaving, making a great
dea] of money out of them ; by tliis means he
gut BO much work at his command, that the
re^t of the publicans complained to the har-
bour-master, and the man was forced to give
up Ills public-bouse. When he had to give it
up be mode it over to his niece's husband,
anil til At man allowed him It. for evci^' ship
he brought him to ballast. I've known him —
tlint'^ the publican that succeeded the man
I've b^en telling you of — liave 40 ships in a
day : one week witli another he has had 100
sbipA ; that's T)/., and he has them still. It's
the sajjie now. We've both worked for him.
Hid w Lie's uiu-le (tlio hai'bour-master's water-
man) says to the captains, and he goes on
bnojxl to see tliem after tlie harbour-master's
visit to thorn,— Go to ; get your ballast of
liiiiit ami I'll give you the best berth in the
liver.''
I tioxt obtained an inti^rview with a young
Tiiim who was the \ietlm of a double extortion.
He made the following statement: —
** 1 work undor a publican, and lodge in his
house. I have done so for five yeai*s. I pay
sjji. iUL a-wrek, there being ten of us in two
rooinii. We're all single men. These two
riHinis con t nil) four beds, tlireo in the larger
ruiim Rn ..I one in the other. Wo sleep two in a
bed^ Aiid should have to sleep three in some;
only two of the men don't occupy the lodgings
" "^I^ **'^ mnuN mm in ii — me oea cannoi oe
? «^^p] teoii|Eht out of the room without being taken
/."'^'TiT/to inacea. We must cook in the tap-room,
whuh Is a room for the purpose ; it eontaina
fonna and an old table, with a large grate.
We are found fryingpans and gridirons, and
pans, and lire, and candle ; but we must find
our own knives and forks. The room is
shameftiUy dirty — I mean the tap (cooking)
room. It looks as if it hailn't been washed
for years. It's never been washed to my know-
ledge. The bed-rooms are veiy little better.
The bedding is very bad — a flock bed, with a
pair of blankets and quilt, and a sort of sheet
clean once a-fortnight. There's very bad ven-
tilation and very unpleasant smells. It's a
horrid den altogether. None of us would stop
tliere if we could help it — but we cant help
it, for if we leave we get no work. We are
forced to find locks for our rooms, to keep onr
bits of things fh)m being stolen. One man
was robbed ; my clothes was in the box with
his ; the box was broken open, but the clothes
was left, and a few halfpence put away in the
box was taken. There's lota of bugs ; we can
only sleep after hard work, and we must drink
when we're at work. I've poured my beer
into the river many a time, it was so bad — it
tasted poisonous. We've drank Thames water
rather than the bad beer we're all forced to
drink. To show how we're treated I'll tell yo«
this : I owe so much, and so much a weets
stopped to pay it ; but it noTer gets less, I am
always charged the same. There it is. the
same figures are on the slate, keep paying,
paying otf as you will. They won't rub it ott,
or if they do rub it off it's there again the
next time. Only last week a man was dis-
charged for grumbling, because he objected
to paying twice over. He hasn't had a daf§
work since."
Then came one who was the emploj/4 of
a publican and grocer. He said :
** I work under a publican and giooer. Pm
any man's man. I stand with my fingers in
my mouth at Ratchff-crosa watching, and have
done it these last nine years. Half of us is
afraid to come and speak to yon. When I
volunteered, the big-whiskered and fat-faced
men (foremen) were looking at me and
threatening me for coming to you. No matter,
I care for nobody. Worse nor I am I can't
be. No more I can't. I go to one publican's
to work TiO tons, and for that I get 4s., but Os.
is my rights. The remainder 3«. is left — I'm
forced to leave it — for me to drink out on
Sunday night If I was in a fair house the
publican would pay me 7$. Qd; as it is I get
•is, and 2$, must be dnmk, — it's the rule at
that house — he's in opposition and works low.
If I was at liberty it wasn't to his house I'd
go for a drink. The hardest-drinking niin
gets work first, and when a man's drunk be
doesn't care what stuff he puts into his beUy.
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
2»8
re go to a job the four of ns are
to drink half-a-pint of rum or gin ;
.cans expect it. If I was a teetotaler
ay my whack and the other men may
for the score against the ship is
mong the men equal.
>ose two foremen were to meet and
Irop of rum or brandy together, and
talk about a ship's ballast, that's
to us poor fallows — it's stuck up to
we mustn't say nothing, though wc
never had a sup of it; but if we say
,'8 all up — no more work.
3 on a time I worked for a publican
here, and when I came to the house
lOthing to drink. My oldest mate
d to me as we were on our wny
London Dock, and told me to speak
1, for he knew there was a Mse
iked -against the ship ; and the others
id to say a word. Well, I did speak
^t into the house, and the foreman
e» and he asked me what business I
leak more than another ? There was
ed to the score for drink that we never
or ever saw, — not a sup of it. He —
e foreman — told me I shouldn't go
the ship ; I said I would, in spite of
>Ld the missus I expected she wouldn't
' more drink but what we had our-
r would get when we came home; and
she wouldn't; and that's two years
i I haven't had a job from them
inoe.
x>8e I get to the public-house for
ay at six in the evening, I am forced
there till eleven, until I am drunk
m— drunk from vexation ; stopt when
gry after five or six hours' work on
V and not let take the money home to
and family, nor let have anything to
I'm waiting for that money to get a
Tib; but when I'm half drunk the
roes off just for a time. I must go
kin a morning if my children go with-
Ji&st, and starve all day till I come
night. I can get nothing from my
n but drink. If I ask Uiem for a
I can't get it. I've finished my load
t without breaking my fast but on the
re forced to take with us.
found grocers better to work under
blicansi—there's a great deal more
in them. They charge a middling
9; but they'll have tow-row out of it,
irj money — so much a score. They'll
a score only for giving us a job. I
IS good sugar as I get of them at ^d.
; but then the difference between the
ind publican is, that the wife and
in have a bit of somethiog to eat under
«r, but not under the publican. All
brink witli the publican ; but we cannot
ink home. When I go home drunk
e publican's, I tumble on the floor,
, and say, 'Is there anything to eat
for me V and my old woman says, * Where's
the money? give me that and I'll give you
something to eat.' Then a man gets mad with
vexation, and the wife and children runs away
from him; they are glad to get away with
their lives, they're knocked about so. It
makes a man mad with vexation to see a child
hungry, — it kills me; but what the foreman
prives me I must take; I dare never say no.
If I get nothing — if all is gone in drink —
I must go from him with a blithe face to my
starving children, or I need never go back to
him for another job.'*
I shall now set forth as fully as possible the
nature of the system by which the bollost-
heaver is either forced by the fear of losing
all chance of future employment, or induced
by the hope of obtaining the preference of
work fVoni the publican, his employer, to
spend at least one half of his earnings every
week in intoxicating drinks. Let me, how-
ever, before proceeding directly to the sub-
ject of my present communication, again lay
before the reader the conclusions which I
lately drew from the Metropolitan Police re-
turns for 1848, concerning the intemperance
of the labouring classes of London. It is
essential tliat I should first prove the fact,
and show its necessary consequences. This
done, the public will be more ready to per-
ceive the cause, and to understand that until
this and similar social evils are removed,
it is worse than idle to talk of ** the elevation
of the masses," and most unjust, to use the
mildest term, to condemn the working men for
sins into which they are positively forced. To
preach about the virtues of teetotalism to the
poor, and yet to allow a system to continue
that compels them to be drunk before they
can get work — not to say bread — is surely a
mockery. If we would really have the indus-
trious classes sober and temperate men, we
must look first, it seems, to flieir employers.
We have already seen that the intemperance
of the coal-labourer is the fault of the employer,
rather than the man ; but we have only to go
among the ballast-labourers to find the demo-
ralization of the working man arising, not
from any mere passive indifference, but from
something like a positive conspiracy on the
part of the master.
According to the criminal returns for the
metropolis, there were 9197 males and 7204
females, making altogether a total of 10,461
individuals, charged with drunkenness in the
year 1848. This makes one in every 110 in-
dividuals in London a drunkard— a proportion
which, large as it seems, is still less than one-
half what it was some ten or fifteen years
back.
For the sake of comparison I subjoin, in
the following page, a Table, taken Amm the
Government Report on Drunkenness ; being a
return of the number of charges of drunken-
ness which have been entered upon the books
of the Metropolitan Police in the years 1831,
4S4
LONJJON LAbOVH AND THE LONDON POOR.
lis
111
i
II
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cio«aocftaaocftt*corHi*oocoaopco
s
s
H
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o
pa
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I
I
OOCOr-li-iedOOCOi-ICtMi-l
3
oo m «D m 00
-^ CO fc^ o cs ««
o cr c* c^ fc« db
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ctoi^^eoaococa^^rHocot^oeo^^b*
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1( CO O iS O 1-f •!•
9«» OD O CO OC O HI
S S
Si
W rH iM
CM rH 1-4 cT cf iH »-^ rH ^ iH
■(►•^OiOr^ooeoeoo?*
OgOGDt-OQ^i-lQr-l O
3^edio-««»-45io«Dooc< c5
S ^ S 3 S
CO H" •-• 00 I*
oT CO* oT cf 00
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00 ei 1-4 CO ct ^
is
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Hiioctooi^c«^^e^ao^:.«aoo«eoo^c»
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LOSDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
3851
IfUIS, and IIV^I, with the ntunber of offirors
employed in, and the locality of, each din-
flion : also the amoont of population in each,
ar<N9rding' to the Parliamentary returns of
Now, eomporing these returns with thoHe of
tlic year before last, we find that the drcrease
of intemperance in the metropolis bnn been
Dinut eztraiirdinary. In thu yoor IH:)], 1 in
every 48 individuals was drunk; in iH:^2 the
number increased to 1 iu Hi; whereas in
It^a it decreased to 1 in 50 ; and in 1H48
the average had again fallt>n to 1 individual
to every 110. This decrease of intouiperance
wa« attended with a similar decrease in the
number of metropolitan beer-shops. In lU^iO
there were 11H2, and in 1848 only 77U beer-
shops in London. Whether this decn^ase
preceded or succeeded, and so was tlie cause
or the conseq-ience of tlie increasetl sobriety
of tlie prtople, it is dithcult U* say. The num-
ber of public hooses in London, however, hod,
increft.<«ed during the same period from 4073
to 4'27d. Upon the cause and elTect of this I
l«Hv.' others to specuLue.
Of the total, 16,461 persons, male aud ftmale,
irLt> were charged with being intoxicated in
the year 184H, no less than one individual in
every seven belonged to the labouring class :
anil, excluding the females from the number,
■w !»h*dl tind that, of the males, every fourth
iodividuol that was taken up fur drunkenness
was a labouring man. Taking the whole pu-
palation of London, temperate and intemper-
ate, (m1y 1 in every 110 is a dnmkord; but
vitii the labooring classes the average is as
hiffh as 1 in every 22. Of course, where llic
habit of drinking is excessive, we may expect
to liiiil also excessive iJu-^nocity. That it is
the t'fudency of all iutoxicaling liquors to
incR'ase the irritability of the individual is
■ffcU known. We might infer therefore, a
frlorit tliat the greater numl)er of common
assaults wotUd be committed by tlie greatest
(Inmkords. In 1S4« there were 7780 indivi-
duals assaulted in London, and nearly one-
fourth of these, or 18H2, were attacked by
lal>ouring men, one in ever}' 26 of the entire
body of labourers baring been charged with
this' offence. The " simple larceny," of which
the labonring classes appear, by the same re-
tnms, to be more guilty than ony other body
of indiridnals, is also explained by their inor-
dinate intemperance. When a man's b«)dily
energy is destroyed by drink, laboiu: is so
irksome to him that he would sooner peril
his liberty than work. What won«Ier, then,
that as many as 1 in everj* 28 labourers shoubl
ht charj<ed with theft? Whereas, of the rest
of the p'»pnlation there are only 1 in every
23r; indivi<lnals. Thus, of the labouring
<*1r*<scs, 1 in every 22 is chargred with being
drunk; 1 in every 26 with c(»mmitting an
n«f>.ault; and 1 in every 28 with being guihy
of Mmple Inrceny.
For the truth of tlie connexion existing
I between drink, pugnacity, and thefb, I wotdd
refer to the statement of one of the most
I intelligent and experienced of the cool whip-
! pern, — one, indeed, to whose unceasing and
: heroic exHrtions that class principally owe
I their redemption : — ** The dialdren of the
I coai-whippers," he told me, ** were, under the
old system, almost reared in the tap-room."
i He himself had known as many as 500
I youths that were transported ; and tliis, be it
remembered, out of a class numbering only
2000 men.
Such, then, are the proved consequences of
an inordinate use of intoxicating liquors. It'
becomes, therefore, the duty of every one who
is anxious for the wull-being of the people, to
diminish tiie occasions for drinking wherever
possible. To permit the continuance of cer-
tain systems of employment and payment,
which ui*o well known, both t^) tempt and
compel the men to indulge in intoxicating
liquors, is at once to breed the very crimes
that it is the otftee of Govermnent to suppress.
The custom pursued by the cool-merchants of
paying the labourers in tlieir employ in public-
houses, as I lately exposed, api>eared bad
enough. The '' backer," jaded and depressed
with his excessive work through the day, was
ontrappt-d into the publi«%h(mse in the even-
ing, under the pretence of receiring his wages.
Once inside he was kept waiting there hour
after hour by Uie publican (who of course
was out of silver, and had to send some dis-
tance for it). Beer is called for by the men
in the meantime. Under the intiuence of the
stimulant, the fatigue and the dejiression
begin to leave the labourers, the burden that
is still on their bocks (it will be remembered
that such is the description of the men them-
selves) is shaken off, and their muscles no
lon<:jer ache and are stitf, but relax, while
their flagging spirits gradually revive under
the potent chann of the liquor. What wonder,
then, that the poor creatures finding it so easy,
and when the habit is once formed, so pleasant,
a cure for their ills, shoubl be led to follow up
one draught with anoihi-r and another? This
system appeared to me to be vicious enough,
and to display a callousness c.n the part of the
employers that quite startled me. But the
system under which the ballast-labi hirers are
now^ suffering, is an infamy hardly to be
cri'tlited as flourishinji in these days. I have,
tlierefore. boon at considerable pains to estab-
lish such a mass of evidence upon the subject
as shall make all earnest men look upmi the
continuance of such a system as a nutioncd
dishonour.
Meetixo of th« Baixast Heavehs' Wives.
Before dealing with the Lumpers, or those
who disehargi* the timber fnmi ships — in
contnulistinction to the stevedores, or those
' who stow the cargoes of vessels, — 1 will give
X'». LXXL
2»?0
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.-
the following report of a meeting of the hallast-
heavers' wives. It is the wife and children who
arc the real sufferers from the intemperance of
. the working-man ; and being anxious to give
the public some idea of the amount of misery
entailed upon these poor creatures by the com-
pulsory and induced drunkenness of the hus-
bands, I requested as many as could leave tlicir
homes to meet me at the British and Foreign
School, in Shakespeare-walk, Shadwell. The
meeting consisted of the wives of ballast
heavers and coal-whippers. The wives of the
coal-whippers had come there to contrast
their present state witli their past, with a \iow
of showing the misery they had endured wlicn
their husbands were under the same thraldom
to the publican as the ballast-heavers are now,
and tlie comparative happiness which they
have experienced since they were freed from
it. They had attended unsolicited, in the hope,
by making their statements public, of getting
for the bdlast-heavers the same freedom fVom
the control of the publican which the coal-
whippers had obtained.
The meeting consisted of the wives of
ballast-heavers and coal-whipi)ers, thirty-one
were present. Of tlie thirty-one, nine were
the wives of coal-whippers, the remaining
twenty-two the wives of ballast-heavers. Many
otliers, who bad expressed a desire to attend,
were prevented by family cares and arrange-
ments ; but, small as the meeting was com-
paratively, it aflforded a very fair representation
of the circumstances and characters of their
husbands. For instance, those who were
coal-whippers' wives appeared comfortable and
"well to do." They wore warm gowns, had
on winter- bonnets and clean tidy caps under-
neath ; the ballast-heavers' wives, on the con-
traiy, were mostly ragged, dejected, and
anxious-looking.
An endeavour was made to ascertain in the
first instance how many children each person
had. This was done by questioning them
separately ; and from the answers it appeared
that they all hnd families. Eight haid one
child each, the rest varied from two to eight,
and one woman stated that she had twelve
children, all of whom were living, but that
only four resided now with her and her
husband. Five had infants in their arms,
and several had children sick, either at home
or in some hospital.
In the next place the ballast-heavers* wives
were asked whether their husbands worked
under publicans ? " All of them," was the
reply, " work under publicans ;" and, said one,
"Worse luck for us," — a sentiment Uiat was
very warmly concurred in by all the rest.
This fact having been specifically ascertained
from each woman, wo proceeded to inquire
from them separately how much their hus-
bands earned, and how much of their earnings
was spent at the publicans' houses through
which they obtained work, or where they were
paid.
" My husband,** said the first woman,
'' works under a publican, and I know that be
earns now 12«. or I3<. a- week, but he brings
home to me only half-a-crown, and sometim«s
not so much. He spends all the rest at a
public-house where he gets hi? jobs, and often
comes home drunk."
** My husband," exclaimed the second, **win
sometimes get from 24s. to 28s. a-week, but I
never see anything the likes o' that money
from him. He spends it at tlie publican's.
And when he has earned 243. he vill some-
times bring home only 2s. or 2«. 6rf. We
are badly off, you may be sure, when the
money goes in this way. But my husband
cannot help spending it, for he is obliged to
get hi» jobs at the public-house."
" Last week," interposed another, " we had
not one penny coming into our house; and
the week before — which was Christmas week
— my husband got two jobs which would
come, he told me, to 85. or 9«. if he had
brought it all home ; but he only brought me
Is. This was alHhe money I had to keep me
and my five children for the whole week ; and
I'm sure I don't know how we got through.
This is all owing to the public-house. And
when we go to fetch our husbands at eleven or
twelve o'clock at night they shut us out, and
say they are not there, though we know very 1
well they are inside in a back place. My :
husband has been kept in that back place ,
many a time till two or three in the morning
— then he has been turned out and come ■
home drunk, without Od. in his pocket, though :
the same day he has received 8s. or Oj^ at the ■
same public-house.**
"They go to the public -house," addecE
another woman, " to get jobs, and to cuny
favour they spend their money there, because
if they did not spend their money they would
never get a job. The men who will drink the
greatest quantity of money will get the most
jobs. This leaves their families and their
wives miserable, and I am sure me and my
poor family are miserable enough.**
" But this,'* interposed a quiet, elderly
woman, '* is the beginning of the tenth week,
in all of which my husband has only had four
jobs, and all I have received of him during
tliat time is Is. Z\d, a-weck, and we stand. in
2s. C</. a-week rent. I am sure I don't know
how we get along. But our publicans are
very civil, for my husband works for two.
Still, if he does not drink a good part of it
away we know very well he will get no more
work."
" It is very little,*' said a female with an
infant in her arms, *'that my husband earns;
and of what little he does earn he does not
fetch much to me. He got one job last week,
heaving 45 tons, and he fetched me home
Is. 6</. for it. I was then in lodgings at Is. 6</. ;
a-week, but I could not afibrd them, but now
I'm in lodgings at 9d, a-week. This week he
has no work yet In Christmas week my man .
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOH.
287
told me he earned 25s., and I believe lie did,
but be only fetched me home 8«. or 04. on
Saturday. My husband works for a publican,
ftnd it was at his house he spent his money.
One day last week he asked Uie publican to
l^ve him a job, and he said, * I cannot give
you a job, for there is nothing against you on
the slate but Is,, and so he got none thero.
lly iniant is six weeks old to-day, and this
woman by mo (appealing to t]ie female next
to her) knows well it is the truUi that I tell —
that for two nights in last week my child and
myself were obliged to go to bed breadless.
We had nothing neither of those two days.
It was the same in one night the week before
Chxistmas, though my husband received that
night 8s., but all was spent at the public-house.
On Christmas night we could not get any
sapper. We had no money, and I took the
gown off my back and pawned it for 2s. to
firovide something for us to eat. I have
nothing else to say but this — that whatever
mj husband earns I get little or nothing of
it, for it goes to the public-house where he
gets his jobs."
An iniiim woman, approaching fifty years
of age, who spoko in a tone of sorrowful
resignation, said, — " We have had very little
money coming in of late. My husband has
been very bad for ten weeks back. He throws
19 blood ; I suppose he has strained himself
too much. All the money I have had for
nx weeks to keep us both has been 8«. If he
WIS earning money he would bring it to me."
Another woman, ** Not without the publican's
aQowance, I am sure."
The first woman, *<No; the publican's al-
birance would be taken off; but the publican,
yoa see, must have a little — I do not know how
miieh it is, but they must have something if
they give us their jobs."
This woman was here asked if her husband
ever came home drunk ?
** Yes," she replied ; «* many a time he
comes home drunk ; but he must have the
diink to get the jobs."
A number of other women having made
ttatements confirmatory of the above ; —
"Do you think," the meeting was asked,
**yonr husbands would be sober as well as
industrious men if they could be got away
from the publiehouse system of employment
•nd pajrment of wages?"
'* God Almighty bless you I" exclaimed one
woman,** they would love us and their families
•U the better for it I We should all be much
the better for it."
** And so say all of us I" was the next and
perfectly unanimous exclamation.
*'If we could see that day," said one who
had spoken before, '* oiur families would have
httle to complain of.*'
Another added, "The night-houses ought
*o be closed. That would be one good
thing."
Some inquiries were then made as to whe-
ther these poor women were ill-treated by
tlieir husbands when they came home in a
state of intoxication. There was a good deal
of hesitation before any answers could be ob-
tained. At last one woman said, "her hus-
band did certainly beat her, of course; but
then," she added, " he did not know what he
was doing."
** I," said another, " should not know what
it was to have an angry word with my hus-
band if he was always sober. He is a quiet
man — very, when the drink is out of him;
but we have many words together when he is
tipsy ; and '' she stopped without com-
pleting the sentence.
Several others gave similar testimony ; and
many declared that it was the public house
system which led their husbands to drink.
One woman hero said that the foremen of
gangs, as well as the publican, helped to re-
duce the ballast-heaver's earnings; for they
gave work to men who took lodgings from
them, though they did not occupy tliem.
This was confinned by another woman, who
spoke with great warmth upon the subject
She said that married men who could not
afford to spend with the publican and lodge
with the foremen in the manner pointed
out, would be sure to have no work. Other
men went straight from one job to another,
while her own husband and other women's
husbands had been three or four weeks \iith-
out lifting a shovelful of ballast. She con-
sidered this was ver}' hard on men who had
famiHcs.
A question was here asked, whether any
women were present whose husbands, in order
to obtain work, were obliged to pay for lodg-
ings which they did not use ?
One immediately rose and said, " They do
it regularly at a publican's in Wapping ; and I
know the men that have paid for them have
had six jobs together, when my husband has
had none for weeks." " There are now," added
another, "fourteen at that very place who
never lodge there, though they are paying for
lodgings."
They were next asked, who had suffered
from want owing to tlieir husbands drinking
their earnings, as described at the public-
houses in question?
"Stan'ation has been my lot," said one.
'* And mine," added another. " My children,"
said a tliird, " have often gone to bed at night
without breaking their fast the whole length
of the day." ** And mine," said one, " have
many a time gone without a bit or sup of any-
thing all the day, through their father working
for the publican."
" I cannot," exclaimed the next, " afford my
children a ha*porth of milk a-day."
" Many a time," said one, who appeared to
be very much moved, " have I put my four
children to bed, when the only meal they have
had the whole day has been lib. of bread;
bnt it's of no use opening my mouth."
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOE.
'* 1/ said the last, ** have been in London
twenty Heren years, and during tliat time I
can nafely &ay 1 Imvo never taken mybelf a
single gloss of apiiits or anytliiiig else ; but
in tliat time I have suffered Uie maityrdom
of foily years — all through my buciband and
the public-house. I have two children who
bring me in, one of them 2s. C)d. and the other
ttf. Of/, a- week, which is all we have, for my
huHband gets nearly nothing. If he could
bring his earnings liome, instead of spending
them at a public-house, wo should be very
comfortable."
These questions led to one concerning the
lato-hi)urKyst«^m at the public4iou868 frequented
by the ballast-heaven.
*■ I ollen go for my husband," said one,
" at one or two o'clock in the morning, after
I know he has been paid ; but they -have
kept him in a back apartment away from
me, till I have threatened to smasli the win-
dows if Uiey did not let him out I threat-
ened to smash the windows because my
oliildren were wanting the money for bread,
which he was sp<iU(Uug there. If our husbands
were inclined to come home sober there is
little chaaoe, for Uiey have cards and bagatelle
to keep them till they become heady, and
when they are become heady, there is nothing
left for their families — then the publicans
luck our poor men out, and lock the doors."
This statement was confirmed, and after
several otlier peraous had described their
feolings, —
The coal-whippers* wives were asked whether
or not their condition and that of their families
had been improved since the system of carry,
ing on the trade had been altered by the
Le^^islature ?
The answer was a most decisive affirmative.
Their husbands, they said, used to spend all,
or very nearly all, their earnings with the
publicans; but now, when they got a good
•hip, they bi-ouglit home the greatest part of
their earnings, which was sufiidcnt to make
their families comfortable. Their husbands
had become quite different men. They used
to ill-treat tiiem when they were paid at a
pnblio-house — very much so, because of the
drink ; but now they were very much alter«ul,
bocaufie they were become sober men to what
they were. None were now distressed to
provide for their families, and if there was
plenty of work they would be quite happy.
The improvement, one woman said, must
be very great, otherwise there would not be
80 many institutions and benefit societies,
pension societies, and schools or their
children.
This declaration was very warmly applauded
by the wives of the ballast-heavers. They
declared that similar measures would pro
dnoe similar benefits in their ease, and tliejr
hoped the day would soon come when they
should be secure in the enjoyment of them.
So terminated the proceedings.
LUMPEBS.
Tbx *' Lumpers'* ars, if possible, in a more
degraded state than the ballast-heavers ; they
are not, it is true, under the same amount of
oppression from the publican, but still they
are so besotted with the drink which they are
tempted to obtain from tlie publicans who
employ them,, as to look upon the man who
tflidts them out of their earnings rather as %,
friend than an enemy.
The lumpers make, I am informcdt
during six months in the year, as inncli aa
24(. ; and during the other six months they
have nothing to do. Of the *2lt. thst they
earn in tlicir busy time, 2Ut. it will be seen
is spent in the public-house. One master*
lumper, who is a publican, employs as many
as 100 men. This iufiirmatiuu I have, not
only fVom the men themselves, but from the
managers of the Commercial Docks, where thft
greater number of the lumpers are engaged*
The 100 men in the pubUcan's employ, aa
will be seen from the evidence of the wives,
spend upon an average 1/. a- week in the
house, taking generally but 4s. home to theii
vriwes and families: so that no less a sum
than 100/. a-week is squandered in the pub-
lican-contractor's house by the working men
in drink. There is not only a pay-night, but
two ** draw-nights" are appointed in the week*
as a means of inveigling the men to their mas-
ter's tap-room ; and indeed the same system,
which gives the greatest drunkard the best
chance of work, prevails among the Inmpura
as among the btdlast-hcavers. The etfectof
this is, that the lumpers are the moat driuU(ea»
debased, and poverty-stricken of all the classes
of labouring men tliat I have yet aeen ; for»
earning more than the ballast-heavers, tbi^
of course have more to spend in the publio-
house.
I made it a point of looking more mi-
nutely into the state of these men on the
Sunday, for I have found tliat on that day it
is easy to tell the habits of men by their ex-
ternal appearance. The greater part tliat I
saw were either intoxicated, or else reeking
of liquor as early as eleven o'clock on the
Sunday morning. One foreman was decently
dressed, it was true ; but tlien he was sent te
me, I was credibly informed, by the master*
publican, who had heard of my preWous inves-
tigations, to give me a false impression as to
the state of the labourers ; the rest of the men
tiiiit I saw were unwashed and unshaven, even
up to five and six in the afternoon of that dsy.
Their clothes were the same tattered and
greasy garments that I had seen them in the j
day before ; indeed the wives of the lumpen i
appeared to be alone alive to the degradation I
of their husbands. At one house that I visital ,
late on the Sunday evening, I found two "f
the children in one comer of tlu^ small clM^e
room on the han boaida, covered witli a piece
LONDON LABOUR ASD THE LONDON POOR.
289
of old carpet, and four more boys and girU
bU^wed awn J at tlie top and l>iiU«)ui of the ono
tied in which the rest of the fansiiy slept.
Dirtr wet clothes were haiii;iii{^ to di-y ou lines
ai3\>68 the room ; and the fact* of the \vifi\ m*]io
was aloue, in all her sqimlid misery, was lilack
auil p^tfcd with cut-t usd Iatiusos. Not a step
I took but I was dof^ed by some foreiiiim or
other, io the hopos of [uittin^ me on the wrong
scent. I had arranged wiiL the nieu on Sa-
tunli^ morning to have a meeting with them
r*D that iiight after their hihour, but on going
to the appointed place I found not one labour-
ing man there ; and I leanit tlic next day that
the publican had purposely deferred paying
them till a late hour, no that they might have
DO chance of meeting mc. Ou Mcndny morn-
ing, while at the oihce of the Sup^rinten(lent
of the Commercial Dock Company, oue of the
lumpers staggered drunk into the n>om, intent
npoa making some insolent demaml or other.
That this drunkenness, with (dl its attendant
TJevs, i« not the fault of the lumpers, but the
necessary consequence of the hystem under
irhich they are employed, no man who bos
seen tlie marke<l dilforence between the coal-
irhippers and that class of bilMir.riirs who still
work out of ilie public-house, can f(»r a mo-
uent doubt. The sins of the labc>uring mtui,
80 far as I have seen, are, in this instance,
most indi.si>utiibly the sins of his employer.
If he is drunken, it is liis ma^^ter who makes
Itim so : if he is poor, his house bare, his wife
ra${fied, his children half-cliithed, half-fed, and
vkolly uneducated, it is mainly because his
voMt'XfiT tricJks him out of his earnings at the
public nhouse.
Let mo now give a description of tlie lump-
en' labour, and then of their earning*;. The
iimbcr*trade is divided by the custom of the
trade into two ehissos, called timber and
dtiaU. By " timber" is meant v.hat is brought
in uncut logs ; this is AmtTicin red pine,
vfJlow pine, elm, ash, oak, and birch. The
teak-trade is more recent, and seems to be an
exception to the classification I have men-
tioned: it is genemlly described as teak;
mahogany and dye-woods again oic not styled
tiiiibcr. The deals arc all ba^\^l ready for tlie
cari>enter or joiner's use. j\t the Custom-
house the distinctions are, hewn and sawn
Woods: tliat is, timber and deals. On timber
there is now a duty of Is. per load (a load
being fifty cubic feet) and on deals of 2.^. The
deals are sawn in Canada, where immense
steam-mills have been erected lor the purpose.
The advantage to the trader in ha>'ing this
process efleeted in Canada rather than in this
couutr\', sttema to be this : the deals brought
over prepared, as I have described, of different
lengths, varying from six feet to twenty, while
three inches is a usual thickness, ant ready
for the workman's purpose, and no refuse-
matter fi>nn8 a part of them. Were the pine
brunglit in logs, the bark and the unevenness
of the treo would add to the freight for what
w.'is only valueless. Timber and deals require
about the fome time for their thseharge. The
larg>.'st vessels that enter into this trale in the
port of London arc to be found in tlie West
India South Dnck, formerly the City Canal.
On one occasivin in this dock a vess<.>l of bOO
tons, containing 24,(KK) deals and ends, was
discharged in twenty-six working hours— forty-
tive men being employed. I am informed that
twenty men Wduld discharge a ship of 0()() tons
of timber and deals in seven days. Forty men
will do it in four days. In onler to bocxune
acquainted with the system of lum]iing, I went
on bo:u\l a vessel in the river whei^; a gang nf
twenty men were at work. She was a ves«»el
of G<X) tons, fri^ra Quubec. She lay alongside
the riura, a Norwegian vessel — the first
timber -ship that had reached the port of
L(mdon since the change in tlie Nangation
Laws had come into operation. The Flom'.s
cargfj was tHK) pieces of timber, which would
l)e dischaiged by her crew, as the lumpers are
only employed in British vessels. The vessel
that I visited, and which lay next the Flcra,
had her hold and the between-decks (which
might be thirty- eight yards in length) pocked
closely witli deals. She held between 17,<Ji)0
and 18,(HK) deals. She was being lightened in
the river before going into dock; twenty men
were at work in two barges, well moored along-
side, close to two portholes in the stem of the
ship. There were three men in each barge
who received and packed tlie deals into the
Inu-ge as they were thrust out of tlie poitltoles;
the lapf/er deals wore carried along by two men
as snuu as a sufDeient clearance had been
made to enable them to run along — at first,
bent half-ilouble. The two men who carried
the deals ran along in a sort of jog-trot motion,
keeping time, so that the motion reheved the
pressure of the weight; tlie men all said it
was eiisier to nm than to walk with tlio desls :
the shorter di»als (ends) were carried, one
by each man, who trotted on in the same mea-
sured stf;ps, — each man, or each two men
cmplnyed, delivering his t.r their deal to one
especial man in the barge, so that a constant
communication from the ship to the barge
was kept up, and the work went on without
hitch or stojtpage. This same vessel, on a
fonner occasion, was discharged in thirty-six
hours, which shows (as thei'c were between
17,(KX) and 18,(KK) carryings and deUveriiigs of
the deals) how rapidly the work is conducted.
The timber is all dragged from the liolds or
the between-decks of the ship by machines;
the lumpers house it from its place in the
ship by means of winches, tackles, and dogs —
which latter arc iron hnks to lay hold of tlie
logs. Three of these winches and tackles are
stationed at equal distances on each side of a
large ship, and thus with the aid of erowbam
the several pieces of timber are dragged along
the hold and then dropped gently into the
water, either in the dock or in the river, and
doated in rafts to its destination. All ** timber"
200
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOB:
is floated, as a rule. Sometimes when tlie ship
is discharged in dock, timber or deals are let
down a sAde on to a platform, and so carried
to the pile or the waggon. Contractors are
employed by the ship-owners in the West
India Docks, as they will do some ships
cheaper by 10/. than the company could afford
to do it. The ship-owners bear the expense
of discharging the ship.
The following evidence of a lumper was
given unwillingly, indeed it was only by a
series of cross-questionings that any approxi-
mation to the truth could be extracted from
him. He was evidently in fear of losing his
work ; and the tavern to which I had gone
to take his statement was filled with foremen
watching and intimidating him. He said :
'* I am a working lumper, or labourer at
discharging timber or deal-ships. I have
been sixteen years at the work. I should
think that there are more than two hundred
men at Deptford who are constantly engaged
at the work: there are a great many more
working lumpers living at Limehouse, Poplar,
and BlackwadL These do the work principally
of the West India Docks ; and when the work
is slack there and brisk at the Commercial,
East Country, or Grand Surrey Canal Docks,
the men cross the water and get a job on the
Surrey side of the river. In the summer a
great many Irish labourers seek for work as
lumpers. They come over from Ireland in
the Cork boats. I should say there are al-
together upwards of 500 regular woridng
lumpers; but in the summer there are at
least 200 more, owing to the number of Irish
who come to England to look for work at that
time of the year. The wages of the regular
lumpers are not less when the Irish come over
in the summer, nor do the men get a less
quantity of work to do. There are more
timber and deal-ships arriving at that season,
80 more hands are required to discharge them.
The ships begin to arriye in July, and they
continue coming in till January. After that
time they lay up till March, when they sail for
the foreign ports. Between January and July
the regular working lumpers have little or
nothing to do. During that time there are
scarcely any timber or deal ships coming in ;
and the working lumpers then tiy to fall in
with anything they can, either ballasting a
ship, or canying a few deals to load a timber-
carriage, or doing a little ' tide work.' Between
July and Januaiy the work is very brisk. We
are generally employed every day for those six
months. Sometimes we lose a day after
lightening a ship in the river, while the vessel
is going into dock. We call it lightening a
ship when she is laden too heavy, and draws
too much water to enter the docks. In such
a case we generally begin discharging the
timber or denus in the river, either off Deptford
or Blackwall, according as the ship may be
for the docks on the Middlesex or Surrey side.
In the river we discharge the deals into
lighters, whereas when the ship is in Hie dock
we generally discharge, along a stage on to the
shore. Timber we put overboud in both
cases, and leave it for the raftsmen to put to.
gether into raits, and float into the timber-
ponds of the different docks. The deals wa
merely land. It is our dutj to put them
ashore and nothing more. After thai Uie
deal-porters take them and sort them, and
pile them. They sort the white from the yel-
low deals, and eadi kind into diifierent lengths,
and then arrange them in piles all along the
dock.
** Our usual time of working is from six to
six in the summer time and from daybght
to dark in the winter. We always work under
a foreman. There are two foremen lumpers
to almost every ship that we discharge ; and
they engage the men, who work in gangs
under them. Each gang consists of firom i
to 12 men, according as the size of the ship
is large, or she is wanted to be discharged
quickly. I have known as many as 30 lumpers
engaged on one ship ; she was 1000 tona, and
wanted to be got out quick, so that she might
maJke another voyage before the winter set in
abroad.
** The foreman and men are employed by
the master -limiper. Some of the master-
lumpers are publicans; some others keep
chandlers' shops, and others do nothing else
that I know of. The master pays the working
men ds. ^d, a-day, and the foreman Is. extra.
We are settled with every Saturday night
We have two draw-nights in each week; that
is, the master advances either a part or the
whole of our earnings, if we please, on Tuesday
and Thursday nights. I work under a publican.
My master has only gone into the public line
very lately. I don't think he's been at it
more than eighteen months. He has been a
master-lumper I should say for these 10 or 12
years past I worked under him before he
had a public-house. Then he paid every
Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday nights, at
the same house he is now proprietor of. The
master-lumper always pays the men he employs
at the pubUc-house, whether they are publicans
or not.
*< My master employs, I should say, in the
spring season, from 80 to 100 hands regu-
larly : and most of these meet at his house on
Tuesday and Thursday nights, and all of them
on Saturday night, either to be settled with in
full or have a part of their wages advanced.
We are usually paid at 7 o'clock in the evening.
I have been paid as late as 8 o'clock on Sunday
morning ; but that was some years ago, and I
was all that time in the public-house. We go
straight to the public-house after we have done
our work.
** At this time of the year we knock on
work at dark, that is, at five [I am informed
at the Commercial Docks that the usual hour
is four] o'clock, and we remain at our master^
until pay-time, that is 7 o'clock. This we ^
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
291
for three nights a-week certain ; and after our
work at other nights we mostly meet at our
maftter's pnblic-house. The men generally
draw from 2s. to 45., and on a Thursday night
the same snm is advanced to them. The men
are not enforced to spend anything in the
house. Each man has a httle beer while the
master is getting ready to pay him on the
draw-nights ; and ho generally remains in the
house ^fter ho has received his money some
time, as he thinks proper. On a draw-night in
the brisk season many out of the hundred he
employs will stop drinking till 10 o'clock.
Some go away immediately after they have
drawn their money. At least lialf stop for
some time, that is, till 10 o'clock. Some sit
there and spend all they dmw. All the beer
that the lumpers have on board ship is supplied
by the master. He supplies any quantity that
is wanted. The reason why be keeps the
public-house is to have the right of suppUing
the men with beer. He wouldn't, of course.
hke to see us take beer from any other house
than his ; if we did he would give us the sack.
Every master-lumper works out of a public-
house, and the men must have their beer from
the house that he works out of ; and if they
don't, why they ain't wanted. "VVe generally
take about two pots per man a- day from the
house when we go to om- work, in the morning.
On a Saturday night wo mostly stop longer
than on the di-aw-uights. Upon an average,
the working lumpers I should say spend about
2ff. a-day in the season in the pnblic-house.
[It will have been seen, that the lumpers*
wives whom I saw declare that the men spend
20a. out of every 24«.] After a hard week's
work I think they have generally 85. or 95. out
of the 1/. 45. that they earn at the busiest time
of the year. I myself have taken homo as
little as b$. [According to this statement,
assuming that there arc 100 hands — many
say that there are more — regularly employed
out of this public- liouse in the spring season,
and spending each upon an average from 125.
to 20*-., or say 10s. a- week, as much as 80/. a-
week is squandered in beer.] I should say,
taking all the year round, the men make
10*. Orf. a-week. For at least four months in
the 5'ear there is no work at all ; and for two
months more it is very slack. I am a married
man ^rith one child : when I am in full work
I take home bs. a-week at the least. My wife
and child has to suffer for it all,"
Let mo now cite the following table, which
I have been at considerable trouble in obtain-
ing, as the only means of arriving at a correct
estimate as to the collective earnings of the
"journeymen lumpers," or men generally
engaged in discharging the cargoes of the
British timber and deal ships. The infor-
mation has in the three i>rincipal instances
been derived directly from the hooks of tho
Dock Companies, through the courtesy and
consideration of the superintendents and di-
rectors, to whom I am greatly indebted.
i^UMBER OF SHIPS WOOD-LADEN DISCHARGED AT THE DIFFERENT
DOCKS IN 1849.
West India Docks
Commercial Docks
Grand Surrey Canal
East Cotmtry Docks
Regent's Canal
Byt
tmpany.
Ships. Tonnago.
MO 22,050
2 1,180
38 23,742
By Lumpers.
Ships. Tonnage.
69
154
153
U
2
24,.*)17
03,213
45,900
3,400
GOO
389 137,400
By Crews.
Ships. Toniia^.
24 6,791)
259 • 75,000
59 17,000
04 19,091
400 117,983
Total.
Ships. TonxumfO.
129 53,099
139,495
02,900
22,500
000
415
212
75
2
833 279,194
By the above returns it will be seen, that in
the course of that year 380 timber and deal
ships, of 137,469 tons burthen collectively,
were discharged by lumpers. This at 9(/. per
ton, which is the price usually given by the
Dock Companies, would give 5,155/. I5. 9rf. as
the gross amount paid to the contractors.
The master-liunper derives little or no profit
out of this snm directly. This will be evident
from the subjoined statement. A gentleman
at the West India Docks, who has been all his
life connected with the timber trade, informs
ns that twenty men will discharge a wood-laden
ship in seven days. Now, —
20 men at 35. Crf. per day for
seven days, comes to . . .£'24 10 0
And 000 tons at M. per ton, to 22 10 0
So that the master-lumper, by
this account, would lose by
the job at the veiy least . j62 0 0
This statement is fully home out by the fact
that tho master-lumpers will often agree to
discharge a ship for 10/. less than the com-
pany could possibly afford to do it for with their
own men. The question then arises, How is it
that the master-lumper is enabled to do this
LOSVOS LABOUB ASJ> THE LQSBOS FOOM,
TIMBEIUBOCK X.AB01TBESS.
hI lire ? Tliu U eas^y answered. He is j
eniTsllj either a ptihliean himself or con- j
ected with one, and the journeymen in hb ! HATZxa alxeaJv giren an aeeoimtof ths sanftf
imploj spend at his public-hou-^. acourling i and consumption of timber thioogboai tha
o the account of the wives, five-sixths of tlieir cuuntry generally. I shall now speak of tlM im-
in drink, or It, out of ever>' 2U. they
Say, however, that only four-liflbs of
the gross earnings are thus conHninod, then
foor Uioosand and odd out of the ''y.iOO/. will
go to the puhlican, and one thousand and odd
|ioands to the men.
portatioDs into London, and more especiaUy
of the condition of the labonrera conneoted
witli the foreign and colonisl timber tradiu
The quantity of colonial and fiawiga T
that lias been brought into the iiortdT London
since the year lt^4'} has been as foUowa^ —
1848.
1819.
Colonial deals nnd battens J 2^^^^^^ 2,340,000 2^W.000 3,330,000 2,740,000 2,722,000
(in pieces). . ./ ' ' ' * '^ ' ' ' » ' ' — r— ^
FoKign ditto (in ditto) 2.130,000 2,2lKM>00 ],21\2,0(>0 1,0:)0,000 2,044,000 1.903,000
ToUl pieces . 4,150,000 4,(J39,0O0 3,.'iU7,000 3,335,000 4,784.(K)0 4,625,0C0
Colonial timlior (in loads) 57.200 55,800
Foreign ditto (in do.) . 5^200 08,100
53,C00
80,000
49,(500
7U,H10
3R,300
«»,0CO
58.G00
01.400
ToUl loads
115,400 123,000 130,000 128,700 107,300 100,000
The eonsmnption of the metropolis haa been
HtOe less than the quantity imported. In the
dx years above enumerated 'the total import-
ation of f«)reign and colonial deals and battens
was 27.135,000 pieces, of which 20,695,573
were consumed in London; and the total
hnportatiim of foreign and colonial timber
was 714.000 loads, of which 044,224 were
consumed. This gives an average annual
importation of 4,522/)00 deals and battens, of
which only 7M,238 huve been sent out of the
eountiy cvciy year. Of Umber, the averagi'
annual importation is 110,150 loads, and
the average annual exportation only 11,779
loads.
The number of wood-ladon ships that have
entered the port of 1/indon since 1840,
together with the countries whence they conic,
is given below. I^y tliis a'e shall p!.Tecivo
tliat our trade witli Norway in this rospe« t, has
sunk to exactly one-half of what it waj ten
years bock, while that with Sweden and
Finland has been very neariy doubled in the
some time. The timber -ships from the
Pmssian ports have increased little less than
one-third, while those from Bnssia have de-
creased in tlie same proportion. The trade
with Quebec and Montreal also appears to be
much greater than it was in 1840, though
coinpaicd with 1841 there has been a con-
siderable falling off; that of New Brunswick
ami Nova Scotia remains very nearly tlie
same as it was at the beginning of the de-
cennial period. Altogether the great change
appears tr) have been the decline of the Nor-
wegian and Ilussian timber-trade, and the
increase of that mth Sweden and Prussia.
It is also woilhy of notice, that notwithstanding
the increase of population, the number of
wood-laden ships entering the port of London
every yetir has not materially increased within
the last ten years.
THE NUMBKU OF CARGOES OF TIMBER, DEALS, AND BATTENS,
IlirOKTED INTO LONDON IN THE FOLLOWING YEARS.
1840.
1841.
1842.
1843.
1844.
184l>.
1846.
1847.
1848. 1 1S4».
Christiana and C^ristlansund .
40
50
47
27
30
27
22
32
30
23
OUier ports of Norway .
52
43
3s
30
40
39
17
28
25
27
(iotlienburg ....
01
04
4!)
50
69
00
30
07
5.-) 1 41
Swedish ports and Finland
85
84
s.-)
102
90
149
103
101
l;3S 1 154
Russian ports ....
181
108
VM)
119
103
115
140
91
113
]:a
I*rus8iau ports
70
70 5 J
KU
143
124
109
107
10b
lOO
Quebec and Montreal
n;8
2'.'t IHS
230
200
24X)
100
210
179
lo;^
New Bnmswick and Nova Scotia
101
1)7 Cri
134
90
102
127
145
108
10{^
Sierra Leone, Mauhnein, <fec. .
lU
780
20 ; 21)
31
'
10
20
21
13
20
700
0«1
M2
s-ll
S3H
740
KOS
778
709
LOKDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOB.
2M
The aezl step in our inoiuiy is. What be-
comes of the 800 wood. laden ships that
annnaOy enter the port of London f >Vhither
do thej go to be unladen ? to what docks, or
places of ** special security," are they consigned
to be discharged and to have their cargoes
delivered or bonded ?
For this purpose there are flye docks, three
of which lie on the Surrey side of the river.
These three are the Commercial Docks, tlic
Grand Surrey Canal Dock, and the Ka&t
Country Dock, and they are almost contiguous
to each other, the Surrey Canal Dock lying
Immediately alongside the Commercial, and
the East Conntry at the upper end of it.
Thfiiy are situated in, and indeed occupy.
nearly the whole of that small eape of land
which is formed by the bending of the river
between the Pool and limehouse Beaoh.
The docks on the Middlesex side of the river,
which are used for the reception and unlading
of tunbur-ships, are the West India and tha
Regent's Dock, or the entrance to the Regent's
Canal.
The number of wood-laden ships that hava
entered the three principal docks for the last
ten years is given below. I am informed by
Mr. Jones of the Commercial Docks, that for
every ship above 100 tons six men are re«
quired to sort and pile away. Rafting ftom
ships of the above burden requires one or two
men daily, according to circumstances.
THE NUMBER OF WOOD-LADEN SHIPS WHICH ENTERED THE DIFFERENT
DOCKS UNDERMENTIONED IN THE FOLLOWING YEARS.
Tear.
Woii India Dookfl.
Oommereial Dooka.
Oxand Burrej Dookft
YeMolfc Tods.
YMfloU.
Tona.
V<M80l>.
Tom.
If^lO
155 62,024
211
05,809
135
40,447
IHII
201 82,106
265
70,4iJ8
114
34,M)1
18i2
136 54,931
250
87,124
100
29,500
l»4d
109 71,211
308
121.840
108
31,290
le^
121 58,581
480
142,223
173
4H.80d
1845
149 70,514
424
137.047
155
4:J.211
1640
182 88,308
351
111,180
lt)5
50,0(»d
IfJUT
228 124,114
423
143,060
226
02.483
1»48
138 76,050
412
132,406
105
53,423
I64»
138 07,bG0
410
136,329
212
58,780
Total
1,017 751,380
3,544
1,148,377
1,613
453,587
ATcnmNui
rf Bhipa
nberA
Tcv.fuid
tlfeir f. 101 4404
354
324
161
281
iTMtlJp*
lua-
luipe
'^
The foruign and colonial timber trade is,
then, confined to five of the seven docks be-
longing to the port of London. Of these five,
three — the Commercial, the Grand Siurey
Caual, and tlie East Country — are situate on
the Sum»y side of the river, occupying nl-
togethor an area of 172J acres, of which 1004
are water and 72 land, and oifering accommo-
dation and protection for no less than 678
Tessels. Here the principal part of the
timber and deal trade is carried on, the
Commercial receiving the greatest number of
wood-laden vessels, perhaps greater than any
otiier (lock in the world. These, together
witli that portion of the West India Dock
which is devoted to the some purpose, moke
the entire extent of the timber dix;ks attached
to the port of London about 250 acres, of
which upwards of 140 are water — a spoco suf-
ficirnit to give berths to no less than 040 ships.
I now come to speak of the condition and
earnings of the labourers connected with the
timber and hard-wood trade. Of these, it
appears there are 1030 men casually em-
ployed at all the timber docks^ of whom only
132 obtain work all tlie year roimd. How the
OlX) casual deal-porters and rafters live during
the six months of tlie year that tlie slack
season usually lasts in the timber trade, I
cunnot conceive. As not a sixpence of their
earnings is saved in Uie brisk season, their
fate in the winter is to suffer privations and
alHictions which they only know.
I shall begin with tlie slate of the dock-
labourers employed at tlie foreign and hard-
wood trade. This trade is confinetl mainly, if
not solely, to the We^t India Dock.
Concerning tliis branch of tho wood ti'ode,
I give below the statement of a man who has
worked at it for many years, and in doing so,
I wish to draw attention to tlie latter part of
Uie narrative, as a proof of what I have re-
peatedly asserted respecting the regard ex-
hibited by the authorities of the West India
2J4
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
Dock, and in particular hy Mr. Knight, the
superintendent, for tlio weirore of all tlie men,
whether directly or even indirectly employed
by them.
This indirect employment of workmen,
however, is the great bune of the industrious
classes. Whetlier the middleman goes by the
name of sweater, chainber-ni sister, lumper, or
contractor, it is this trading o])erative who is
the great melius of reducing the wages of his
fellow working-men. To nnik(j a profit out of
the employment of his bi-other-uperatives ho
must obtain a lower class labour. He cares
nothing about the quality of the work, so long
OS tho workmen can g^^t through it somehow,
and will labour at a cheaper rate. Hence it
becomes a business with him to hunt out the
lowest grades of working men — the dnmken,
the dishonest, the idle, the vagabond, and the
unskilful men — becauso these, being unable
to obtain emph)yment at the regular wages of
the sober, honest, industrious, and skilful
portion of the tnule, ho can obtain their
labour at a lower ruto than what is usuidly
paid. " Boy -labour or thief-labour." said a
middleman on a large scale, " what do I
core, so long as I can got my work done
cheap." I have alreivly shown that the
wives of tlie sweaters not only parade the
streets of London on tlio look-out for youths
raw from the country, but that they make
perioilical trips to the poorest provinces of
Ireland, in order to obtain workmen at the
lowest possible rate. I have shown, moreover,
that foreigners ore aimually imported from
the Continent for the same purpose, and that
among the chamber-masters in the shoe trade,
the child-market at Bethnal-green, as well as
the workhouses, ore continuiLliy ransacked for
the means of obtaining a cheaper kind of
labour. All my investigations go to prove
that it is chiefly by means of the middleman -
system tliat the wages of the working men
are rcduce<L This contractor — this trading
operative — uses the most degraded of the
class as a means of underselling the worthy
and skilful labourers, ainl of ultimately drag-
ging the better down to the abasement of the
worst. If men cannot subsist on lower prices,
then he takes apprentices or hires children ;
or if workmen of character and worth refuse
to work at leas than the ordinar}' rate, then
he seeks out the moral refuse of the trade,
those whom none else will employ ; or else he
Hies to the workhouse and the gaol to And
labour meet for his purpose. Backed by this
cheap and refuse labour, he offers his work at
lower prices, and so keeps ou reducing and
vtducing the wages of his bretliren until all
sink in poverty, wretchedness, and vice. I am
therefore the more anxious to impress upon
the minds of those gentlemen who ore actuated
by a sincere regard for the interesti^ and com-
forts of the men in their employ, the evils of
such a system ; for, however great may be tljo
saving of trouble effected by it, yet, unless it
be strictly watched (as I must confess it is at
the West India and Commercial Docks) it can
only be maintained by the employment of a
cheaper and worse class labourer, and therefore
must result in the degradation of the woi^-
men. I have said thus much, because I find
this contract system the general practioe at
all the wood-docks, and because I am conTinced
that the gentlemen to whom the maDagement
of those docks is entrusted, Mr. Knight, Mr.
Jones, and .Mr. Cannan, have the welfiire of
the men in their employ sincerely at heart.
Of the evils of lumping, or discharging wood-
ships by couti-act, I have already treated at
considerable length. Under that system, it
will be remembered, I showed that the contrac-
tor, who is commonly a publican, makes hii
profit, not by cheapening the labourer, bat by
intoxicating him. Like the contractor for
ballast, ho gets his money out of the drank*
enuess of the workmen, and by this means it
enabU^d to undersell the dock proprietors; or,
in other words, to discharge the wood-laden
ships at a less rate tlian Uiey could possibly
afford to do it for by the fair and honourable em-
ployment of their men. Of the effeots of this
system — Uie drunkenness of the men, the
ston-ation of the wives, the squalor and igno-
rance of the children, the wretchedness and
desolation of the homos, I have already treated
at some length : and it will be seen hereafter
that in those docks where Uie superrision that
is maintained at the West India and Com-
mercial is not kept up, tlie labourers are
reduced to almost the same state of poverty
and destitution.
But to return. A man living in a smsll
room in a poor neighboiurhood, but in a tidy
apartment, and with a well kept little garden
at the back, gave me the following account of
Ills .earnings and laboiur in the mahogany
department of the West India Docks : —
** I have worked in the West India Docks for
eleven years, and for the last half of that time
in the maliogany part of the wood-yard. Before
that, I was deven years in the merchant ser-
vice as able seaman ; but I got married, and
thought I could do better in the docks ; for»
afler all, what is 18/. a-year, supposing I had
the luck to be at sea nine montiis every year
at 2/.a-month — what is 18/. a-year, sir, to keep
a wife and family on, as well as a man himsellr
when he's ashore ? At the West India Docks,
we unload the mahogany, or logwood, or fancy
wood from the ships, and pile them wherever
they're ordered. We work in gangs of six or
seven, with a master at the In. 'ad of the gang;
the logs are got out of the hold with a pur-
chase and a jigger, and heaved ashore by a
crane ou to a ti-uck, and we drag the truck to
the place to stow the timber. In the wood-
yards a machine lifts the timber up, by us men
turning handles to work the machine, and puts
it into its place in the warehouse. We are paid
2*. Orf. a-day, working from eight to four. If
only employed for four hours — and we're not
LOSJ>OS LABOUR AND THE LOSDOS POOR, .tj^i
M:L to vork for Ins* th«i fonr hours — we bare l to Mr. Jones» tho intelligent and conrteona
U 4v.'. It' I could get 2ji. %d. a-day all the year siipenuteiu)eut» ibr mucli valuable iiit'or.u:i-
c!irika*^'h, I'd be a ba^ipy man ; but I cnu't. tion.
31 J. aud ttiich a^ me, eamd lOt., XU^ or as far | Tlu' Avorldng lumpers, as I before ei^iiiaiiKMl,
ii» ITm. a- week when we aro wanted. 13at take an? the labourfrs employed t.) disi'hni>;i* ull
Liioyear tbrougb, 1 make between Ji.'. and l().t. , woo«l-l.'ideuYess«.'ls, except f"rcijjrushli>«,wbicli
a-weck; nut of that I have to keep a wife and are discharged Ijy their own cn'ws; tho vessi)!.-*
f lu- children. I've lost one childf and my wile unkili'U by tlie lumptrs are discliaii?e«l some-
. :r. .u'ot httlc or nothiu^ most times to do with : thiK-s in the dock, and sometimes (wlieu im
iit-r ne»:Hlle; and if she docs, '/et work, what i.':m I heavily bulen) in tlio riv^T. The c^ivoes of
^lle UAiike at five fiu-tliiii;;s or thitfe-hidrpeiice , wood-ladi'n vess^'lH are tuiiied cith-r landed
a shirt for the slop-shops? My ehlo-^t child, | or raftoil so'hIs ; the ** landed" goods au*o deals,
however, does make I.*, or I5. Orf. a-woek. I butti-iis, sleeiitr^wninscot logs, and hide(d all
hve ou bread and butter, with a dr«»p of beer . hut hewu tuaber, which is "roftecL" When a
Do^ ami t]ien, six days out of the seven. On | ves^^tl is miladen in the river, the landed goods
Sundays \\c mostly have a shilling's wortli of , we discharged by lumpers, who also load the
meat — buUo;.-k's head generally. Sometimes [ lighters, whereas in thick tlie lumpei-s dis-
oiur work is very hard, witii hi-iwy liftiu'-.;- A ehnr^'e tlunn into the company's barges, which
weakly man's no u«4e, and I've wumlcred how 1 1 are loavleJ by them as well, "With smaller
have the strongtJi 1 have on bread and butter, vessels, however, which occasionally go along-
Weare allpaid iuthe dock,fmdthoii-'sni>body I side, the lumpers discharge directly to the
allowed to get the men to drink, or to tratlic j shme, where the ^'•)ods an; received by the
with them anyhow, but in a fair, regular way. I con:paiiy's porters. The lumpers never work
There's plenty hung al>out every day wlio would on shore. Of the portei-s working on shore
work a day's work iovil^. : theiv's a gocnl many
Iiisli. I don't know that there's any foreigners,
without it be on the sugar sMe. Sometimes a
homlred men are employed iu our pail of tlie
buMueas ; to-day thei'e wus from forty to lifiy
at wurk, and a huuilred more was to be hud if
there ai-e two kind'^, viz. deal and stave -porters,
w!iose duty it is to receive the landed goods
aiul to pile ami sort tlicin, either along tho
quay or in the buildiag ground, if duty has to
l;e paid upon tliem.
The hewn- timber, or rafted goods the lump-
tbey'd been wanted. Jobs (»l'ten come in in a • ei-s tlinist thron;:li the porthole into tlie water,
Imap — all at once, or n«>ne ai all ; v; ry often I anil there tho raftsmim receives them, puts
ifith tlie wind. "NVe run backwards and for- j th(;m in t*» lengths and sizes, and then aiTanges
wards to the sugar-side or the Siurny I)o:k, as , tliem iu fluats — tlh-rc being eighteen pieces to
we expect to be wanted. AVe don't kn»\v wliat. | a lloat. If the '^hip is discharged in Uie river,
the foremen of tlie gongs get, but the c'.inpnny the rafter lloats th? limber to the docks, and
won't allow them to underpay us ; and I have . ilieii to tlm pi>nus of the company. If, liow-
notliing to comphun about, either of them or ;ver, the :.liii) is disj'har4e«l in d'jck, thi?n tho
tlie company, though were had irif. Tlje lore- . ridtnim Ht^uts the limbor only from the main
man can pick his laen. ^lany of us has to go | (Utik to the pumls.
ti> tlie parish. Once I earned only ;'«,-. in three \ The raficrs ai-e rdl frciMnen, for otherwise
weeks. Our best time is from junn or July, 1 they couhl notw.rk ou the river; they must
c'ntinuing on for two, three, foiu", or live have served seven ye.u'S to a waterman, and
uionilis as happens. We live half ilio yi»ar I ihey m'k\ ohligr-d to pay 3«. a-year totlieWater-
f.nd starv'e tlie fothi-r. I'liere's very I'cv,- tee- man's Company for a license. There are six-
tuuders among us — in'ii want betr if they | toen or seventeen rafters (all preferable men)
hve upon bread and but tor; iIk re's muny i rnipl-iyed by tlie (.'•■nuiiei'cial iVxrk Company,
know lives on a meal a-day, an I tlial's bread 1 and in busy ihiies there ure occa-lonaily as
.'ind butter. There's no drunkards amonu our I many as forty crisual raftiirs, or ''pol.ers," us
men. We're mostly marrietl m<n with fami- they an* calh-d, from tln.ir p(»kin^ about the
li'-s ; most pf>or ni^^i is married, 1 think. ' d<icks for a Job: these casual men aro not
Poor as I am, a wife and family'* sojnething , <*!ij)iible of raiting a ship, nor are tluy free
10 cling to like." watenn^-n. tiny are oidy employed to lloat the
timber from the ship up to the ponds and stow
The Timbeh and Deal Tiiade. i it, (»r to am^nd to deliviries. The skill of tho
I rafter lies in ganging and sorting tho tunher
I N«-w come to the timbir and deal trade. | acc'.rdiug to size, quality, and own" -i-s hi p. and
Th.' lab<.»urers connected with this portion of making it up intt» lloats* It is only (i.i expe-
thc trade aro rafters or raftsmen, and deal or | rit-ncc'ii nifter who can t.-ll the dilVi-iiit sizes,
stave-porters; these are either jM.rmanently or quidities, and own.'i-s of the timber; this the
oa^ually employed. I shall give an account of , ])ok«*rs, or ciu>ual ndlcrs, ai"e miabl.* to tlo.
C!i.h, as well as of the system pm-sued at (.'ach The pokers, again, cannot lloat the timl.-er
<Jl'ihe docks, bei,'inning with the Commercial, , from the river to tlie ponds; this is o^iing to
Iccause it does the most ext«'n-ive business in two reasons: lirst, they are imt allowed to do
liiis branch of the wood-truilf ; and here let j so on account of not b«'iiig freti watennen ;
hie acknowledge the obhgations I am under , and, sovondly, they are unable to do so from
add
LONDON LABOUR AND TUB LONDON POOR.
the difficulty of navigation. The pokers work
exclusively in the docks; neither the rafters
nor pokers work nnder contractors, hut the
deal and stave-porters invariably do.
The following statement of a rafter at the
Commercial Dock I had from a prudent, well*
behaved, sober man. He was in company with
another man, employed in the same capacity
at the same docks, and they both belonged to
the better class of labouring men : —
** I am a rafter at the Commercial Dock. I
have been working at that dock for the last six
years, in the same capacity, and before that I
was rafter at die Surrey Dock for between five
and six years. I served my apprenticeship to
a waterman. I was bound when I was sixteen.
We are not allowed to work till we have served
two years. In my apprenticeship I was con-
tinually engaged in timber-towing, lightering,
and at times sculling; but that I did only
when the other business was slack. After my
time was out I went Ughtering ; and about a
dozen years after that I took to rafting. I had
been a rafter at the Surrey Canal before then
— while I was in my apprenticeship indeed.
I had 18s. a-week when I tirst commenced raft-
ing al the Surrey Canal ; but that, of course,
all went to my master. I was with the Surrey
Canal about two years as rafter, and then I
joined another party at SOs. a-weck in the
same capacity ; this party rented a wharf of
the Surrey Canal Company, and I still worked
in the dock. There I worked longer time —
four hours longer ; the wages would have been
as good at the Surrey Canal at outside work
as they were with the second party 1 joined.
The next place that I went to as rafter was the
Commercial Dock, where I am now, and have
been for the last six years. I am paid by the
week. When I work at the dock I have 1/. 1$.
a-week, and when I am rafting short^hour
ships (i.«. ships from which we work only from
eight till four) I get is, per day. When I am
working long-hour ships (t.f. ships at which
the working lasts firom six till six) I get 0«.
a-day ; the other rafters employed by the com-
pany are paid the same. Our wages have
remained the same ever since I have been in
the business; all the other men have been
lowered, such as carpenters, labourers, watch-
men, deal-porters and the like ; but we are not
constant men, or else I dare say ours would
have been reduced too. They have lowered
the wages of the old hands, who have been
there for years, 1«. a-week. Formerly they
had 1/. Is., now tliey get 1/. ; the men are dis-
satisfied. The wages of the casual dock-la-
bourers have been reduced a great deal more
than those of the constant men ; three months
ago they all had IBs. a-weck, and now the
highest wages paid to the casual labourers is
15s. The reason why the wages of the rafters
have not been lowered is, I take it, because we
are freemen, and there are not so many to be
had who could supply our places. Not one of
a hundred lightermen and watermen are able
to raft We are only emplayed at certain tiroes i
of the year. Our busy time begins at July,
and ends in October. We are fimy employed
about four months in the year, and get during
that time from 1/. Is. to 30s. a-week, or say
25s. upon an average. The rest of our time
we fills up as we can. Some of the rafters has
boats, and tbey look out for a job at sculling;
but that's poor enough now."
" Ah, very poor work, indeed," said an old
weatlier- beaten man who was present, and had
had 40 years' experience at. the business..
*'*' When I first joined it, it was in the war
time," he added, " and then I was scarcely a
day idle, and now I can't get work for better ;
than half my time." \
" For the other eight months," continued the ^
other man, **I should think the rafters npon'
an average make 5s. a-week. Some of them \
has boats, and some gets a job at timber-towing; \
but some (and that's the greatest number] has '
nothing at all to turn their hands to excepting '
the casual dock labour ; that is, anything they
can chance to get hold of. I don't think those
who depend upon the casual labour of the
docks after the fall season is over (the fall
ships are the last that come) make 5s. a-week,
take one man with another. I should say,
more likely, tlieir weekly earnings is about ii.-
There are about 10 rafters at the Commercial.
Docks, and only one single man among the.
number. They none of them save any money'
during the busy season. They are in debt'
when the brisk time comes, and it tidces themj
all the summer to get clear; which peihapsi
they does by the time the fall ships have done^l
and then, of course, they begin going on in the:
old strain again. A rafter's life is merely,
getting into debt and getting clear of it,—:
that is it — and that is a great part of the life
of all the labourers along shore." ;
He then produced the following account of!
his earnings for the last year : —
1st week .
. . Jgl
1 0
2d
)> •
1
8 0«
8d
»» •
1
4 0
4th
n •
1
5 0
5th
>» • •
0
0 0
6th
» • <
1
1 0
7th
>} • ■
0
0 0
8th
l» •
1
1 0
9th
l» • •
0
0 0
10th
»» • «
1
1 0
11th
l> • •
0
4 Of
12th
}> * *
1
1 0
Idth
»» •
0
4 Of
14th
f} • *
0
7 6
15th
»» • "
0
0 0
16th
»i • •
0
0 0
17th
>f • •
1
1 0
18th
If • "
0 10 Of
19th
n • •
1
4 0
20th
»» • •
0 17 6t
•Outride work.
t J
Nwhlg*
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
297
filstweek .
. ^ 13 0
22d „ .
0 7 0
23d : ,
. 110
24th M
0 10 Of
25th ^
0 2 0
26th ,.
0 4 0
27th «
0 1 0
28th „
1 1 0{
29th „
1 4 0
80th „
13 0
Slst „
. 110
82d ^
16 0
asd „
13 0
34th „
110
9&th .,
0 14 0
36th „
17 0
87th „
2 0 0
38th „ ,
1 5 Of
39th „
1 0 6
40th „
14 0
4l«t „ .
1 10 0
42d „ ,
14 0
43d ,, .
1 10 0
44th „
1 14 0
45th „
15 6
46th „ .
I 10 4
47lh „ .
0 5 0
48th „ .
1 10 0
49th ,.
1 10 0
60th „ ,
1 10 0
6l8t „ ,
17 0
52d ,
110
1(
m.
Istweek .
. jei 10 0
2d „
. 0 10 6
3d n
. 110
4th „
. 0 12 6
5th H
2 10 6||
6th „ ,
1 1 0
7th „ ,
17 0
8th „ ,
1 8 0
9th .,
0 10 0
10th „
1 1 oir
11th ..
0 3 Of
J2th ,.
0 18 oir
13th ^
0 10 Of
Uth „ .
0 0 0
15th „
10 0
16th „ .
0 12 0
17th ,.
1 1 0
18th „ .
1 5 oir
19th „ ,
10 0
20th ^
0 0 0
This gives an ayerage for the seventy-two
reeks above cited of 18«. 6} J. per week.
" Where I get 1/." the man continued, after
■ hid copied his accounts, " many don't get
«. I know many fiiends on the river, and I
let a number of odd jobs which others can't,
n the last six years my earnings have been
loeh about the same ; but others, I am sure,
OD't make half what I do — ^I have earned
Mi
fobbing. t Biuj time bogina
I Working Bund«y and uiffhts.
I Contract Job on river. 1 Dock work.
17. 8«. when I know they have been walking
about and not earned a penny. In busy
times, as many as forty pokers are employed;
sometimes for as many as five weeks in the
year. They get 3«. 6</. a-day from six to six.
After they are out of work they do as best
they can. It's impossible to tell how one-half
of them live. Half their time they are
starving. The wives of the rafters go some
of them charing ; some arc glove-makers, and
others dressmaikers. None that I know of do
slopwork.**
I now come to the deal and stave-porters,
first, as to those employed at the Commercial
Docks.
From a man who has an excellent character
given to him by his employers I had the fol-
lowing account : —
" At our dock," he said, " timber and com
are the principal articles ; but they are distinct
branches and have distinct labourers. I am
in the deal part ; when a foreign timber-ship
comes to the dock, the timber is heaved out of
the porthole by the crew themselves. The
deal ships, too, are sometimes unloaded by the
foreigners themselves, but not often ; three or
four out of a dozen may. Ours is very dan-
gerous work: we pile the deals sometimes
ninety deals high — higher at the busiest time,
and we walk along planks, with no hold, carry-
ing the deals in our hands, and only our firm
tread and our eye to depend upon. We work
in foggy weather, and never stop for a fog; at
least, we haven't for eight or nine years, to my
knowledge. In that soil of weather accidents
are frequent. There was last year, I believe,
about thirty-five falls, but no deaths. If it's a
bad accident, the deal-porters give %d, a-piece
on Saturday night, to help the man that's had
it. There's no fund for sickness. We work in
gangs of five usually, sometimes more. We
are paid for canying 100 of 12.feet deals.
Is. 9<f. ; 14 feet, 2«. 2d, ; 20 and 21 feet, 3«. ;
22 feet, 3s. 8 J. ; andfh)m 24 to 27 feet, 4s. 8</.
That's at piece-work. We used to have 3</.
per 100 more for eveiy sort, but it was re-
duced three or four months back,— or more,
may be. In a general way we are paid nothing
extra for having to carry the deals beyond an
average distance, except for what we call long
runs: that's as far, or about as far, as the
dock extends from the place we start to cany
the deals from. One week with another, the
year through, we make from 12s. to 15s. ; the
15s. by men who have the preference when
work is slack. We're busiest Arom July to
Christmas. Fm tlie head of a gang or team
of five, and Fm only paid as they are ; but
I have the preference if work is slack, and
so have the men in my team. Five men
roust work at the Commercial, or none at all.
We are paid in the dock at the contractor's
office (there are three contractors), at four
o'clock every Saturday evening. Drinking is
kept down in our dock, and wiUi my contractor
drunkards are discharged. The men axe all
V!UM
LOSDOS LABOra JKD THE LONDON POOR.
suUsfiod lut for tlie lowering of their wages.
Ko doubt they caii get labour cheaper stilly
there's so many idlers about. A dozen years
back, or so, they did pay us in a public-house.
Our deal-porters are generally sober men.
The bccr-uieu only come into the dock twice
a-day — ten in the morning, and half-past
three in the afternoon — and the men never
exceed a pint at a time."
An older man, in the same employ, said: —
" I've known deal-portering for twenty years
back, and then, at the Commercial Dock, men
was paid in a public-house, and tliero was a
good deal of drunkenness. The men weren't
compelled to drink, but was expected to. In
tliat point it's far better now. When I was
first a deal porter I could make half as much
m<iro as I do now. I don't complain of any
bo<ly about the dock ; it ain't Uieir fault ; but
I do oompluin uncommon about the times,
there's so little work and so many to snap
at it.'
From a stare-porter at the same dock I had
the f<)lli>wiug ai^couut: —
" AVe are paid by the piece, and the price
varies acoordiug to size from Is. 0<^. to 10s.Uie
thousiuid. Quebec staves, (! feet long by 2
inches thick and a few inches broad, arc 10.s-. the
thousand; and other sizes ore paid in the
same proportion, down to 1». (Jrf. We pack the
bigger staves about our shoulders, restuig one
stave on another, more like a Jack-in-the-green
than anything else, as our head comes out in
tlie middle of em. Of the biggest, live is a
good load, and wc pack all sizes alike, fnldiug
our arms to hold the suialler staves better.
Take it altogether, we make ut stave-work what
the deal-portei's do at tlieir work ; and, indeed,
wc are deal -porters when staves isn't in.
There's most staves comes to the Suirey Canal
Dock."
A man who had worked at tlie West India
Dock as a deal-i>orter informed me that the
prices paid were the same as were paid by the
Commercial and East Country Dock Companies
before the reduction ; but the supply of labour
was uncertain and irregular, chiefly at the
spring and fall, and in British-.\merioun ships.
As many as 100 men, however, my informant
stated, had been so employed at this dock,
making from 15«. to 25«. a-wcck, or as much
as i30«. on occasions, and without the drawback
of any compulsory or " expected drinking."
Such, as fur as I could learn, is the condition
of the labourers employed at these timber
docks, where the drinking system and the pay-
ment of men in public- houses are not allowed.
Concerning the state of the men employed at
the other docks where the public-house system
stiH continues, I had the following details.
A deal-porter at tlie Surrey Canal Dock
stated : " 1 have worked a good many years in
tlie Surrey Dock. There were four contractors
at the Surrey Canal, but now there's one, and
he pays the publican where we gets our beer
all that's owing to us deal-porters, and the
publican pays us ever^- Saturday night I can*t
say that we are compelled to take beer, cer-
tainly not when at our work in the doek, but
we're expected to take it when we*re waiting.
I can't say either that we are discharged if we
don't drink, but if we don't we are kept waiting
late on a Saturday night, on an excuse of the
publican's having no change, or something like
that; and wo feel that, somehow or other, if we
don't drink we'll be left in (he back-groand.
Why don't the superintendent see ns paid in
the dock ? He pays the company's labouren
in the dock ; they're corn-turners and niterf,
and they are paid early, too. W^e now have
4j. 4rf. a day of from 8 to 4, and 9s. 8cC f^m
0 to 6. It used to be, till four months back,
1 think, 4<. 10</. and G«. 4</. In slack times,
say six montlis in the year, we earns f!rom lOi.
to 12s. a-week; in the brisk time 30s., and
sometimes more ; but 30s. is about the average.
We are all paid at the public-house. We
gathers from after five or so on the Saturday
night. We are kept now and then till 12, and
after 12, and it has been Sunday morning
before we've got paid. There is more monej
spent, in coui-se, up to 12 than up to 10. To
get away at i past 9 is' very early. I should
sny tliat half our earnings, except in our best
weeks, goes to the ])ubru*au for drink — more
tlian half oft enough ; if it's a bad week, all
our earnings, or more. When it waxes late
the ^-ives, who've very likely been without
Saturday's dinner or tea, will go to the publi-
can's for their husbands, and they'll get to
scold very- likely, and then they'll get beaten
very likely. We ore chiefly married men with
families. Tretty well all the deal-parters at
the dock are <lrunkards; so there is miseiy
enough for their familie?. The pubUcon gives
credit two following weeks, and encourages
drinking, in course ; but he. does it quietly.
He'll advance any man at work ]«. a night in
money, besides trusting him for drink. I don't
know how many we are ; I should say from 50
to 200. In old age or accident, in course, ve
comes to the parish."
Other men wli(»iii I saw corroborated this
statement, and some of their wives expressed
great indignation at the system piursued in
paying the labourers, lione.of them olgected
to their husbands having four pints of beer
when actually at their work in tlie dock; it was
against the publicans' temptations on Saturday
and other nights that they bitterly inveighed.
At the earnest entreaty of a deal-porter's
wife, I called on Saturday evening at the pnblio
house where the men were waiting to be paid.
I walked into the tap-room aa if I had called
casually, and I was then unknown to all the
deal-porters. The tap- room I found small,
dark, dirty, and ill- ventilated. What with the
tobacco -smoke and the heat of the weather,
the room was most disagreeably dose and hot
As well aa I could count — for ahhoogh it was
a bright summer^ evening the smoke aad
gloom rendered it somewiiBt difllciilt — there
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
2U0
vere 24 men in this tap-room, which is fitted
up Tith boxes, oud thenumber completely filled
tbe apsrtment. In an adjoining room, where
YM a small bar, there were some six or eight
moie deal-piirters lounging abouL These
nnmbera, however, fluctuated, for men kept
eoming in and going out ; but all the time I
vaanceaent there might have been thirty men
in the two hot, dirty little rooms. They were
strong-looking men enough, and all sun-burnt ;
but amongst them were some with pinched
featBTSi and white lips. There they sat, each
man with his beer before him ; there was not
fhe diglitest hilarity amongst them: there
vas not the least semblance of a convivial
Satnrdaj- night's gathering. The majority
Ml in silence. Some dozed ; others drank or
lipped at their pint measures, as if they must
do it to while away the time. These deal-
porters were genendly dressed in corduroy,
lostian, or strong, coarse, blue woollen jackets,
vith trousers of similar material, open big
woollen waistcoats, and with coloured cotton
haadkerchiefe rolled round some thick sub-
stance in the way of a stock, and tied loosely
ronnd their necks over a striped cotton or
loose linen shirt All hod rough bristly beai-ds,
intimating that tlieir shaving was confined to
the Sunday mornings. WiSi respect to the
system pursued at this dock in the payment
of the deal-porters, it is right that 1 should
state that I heard from many deal-porters
praises of the superintendent, though certainly
not of the contractor or the pubUoan. I am
glad to be able to state, however, that it is the
dfltomination of the company to attempt —
and that, indeed, they are now atttuupting —
the aboUtiou of the system of public-house
payment. Mr. M*Cannan, the superintendent
of these docks, to whom I am indebted for
many favours and courtesies, informed mo that
an anangement was once made for the pay-
ment of the deal-porters in " on old box" (a
sort of wooden office) within the dock ; but the
impatience and struggling of the men who had
to wait a little while for their week's eai-uings
almost demolished tlie frail timliers of the old
box, and the attempt was abandoned. AVithin
tlie dock the supply of beer is now limited to
three times a-day, with a ** vend " of half-a-pint
a man each visit.
A middle-aged man, sunburnt and with
niQch of the look of a seaman, gave me an ac-
coont of his labour as a dcid-porter at the
East Country Dock. His room, and he with
his wife and cliildren hod but one, was very
Hparely fuminhcd, the principal article being a
large clean bed. He complained that his po-
verty comi>elled him to hve in the neighbour-
hood of some low lodging-houses, which caused
all sorts of bad characters to resort to the lo-
cality, while cries of ^ murder" were not un-
common in the nisht.
** I have been a deal-porter,** he said, " nearly
twenty years, and for the last few years I have
VQcked at the East Ck>untt7 Dock. Sometimes
we work single-handed, sometimes in gangs of
two, three, or four. The distance the deals
have to be carried has a good deal to do witli it,
as to the number of the gang. We're paid no-
thing extra for distance. Mr. contracts
with the Dock Company to do all the deol-
portering. There are three gangs regularly
employed, each with a master or foreman, or
ganger, over them. They have always the
preference. If three ships was to unload in
one day, there would be one for each gang,
and when more hands are wanted the men of
the regular gangs are put over dead -porters
such as me, who are not regularly employed,
but on tho look-out for piece-work or a day's
work. We reckon when Uiat happens that the
gangers' men have Os. for our U, We ai'e paid
at a public-house. The house belongs to the
company. We pay Ad. a-pot for our beer, and
we're expected to drink not less than four pints
a-day. We're not obliged, you understand*
but we're expected to drink tliis ; and if we don't
do as we're expected, why we're not wanted
next time, that's all. But we're only expected
to take our regular beer when work's brisk.
We're not encouraged to run into debt for
drink and work it out. Indeed, if a man l)0
\s. or l5. Orf. in debt to the publican, he can't
get credit for a bit of bread and cheese, or a
(iriuk of beer. We have good beer, but some-
times we'd rather be without it. But we cant
do without some. Alauy deal-porters, I know,
arc terrible drunkards. We ore paid the same
as at tlie Commercial Dock, and were roduced
about the same time. If I had a regular
week's work now and no stop, I could moke
5iC<., less by 8rf. a-day, or 4*. a- week, for bt'cr.
We're not expected to diink any gin. Before
wages came down I could have made 3(l«.
Our beer-money is stopped out of our <?aruings
by the masters and paid to tlie publican. It's
very seldom, indeed, we get a regular week's
work, and take it tho year through I don't
clear VZs. a-week. To-day, there was only 10
men at work, but sometimes there's 80. Fn)m
June to Christmas is the best time. Some-
times we may wait three or four days for a
job. The regular pay for the Custom-house
hours, from 8 to 4, is -ks. a-day to a deal-por-
ter, but there's plenty to do it for what they
can catch. Lots of Irish, sir? they'll work for
anything, and is underselling all of us, because
an Englishman and his family can't live like
them. In the winter my family and me lived
on U. or 5«. a-week, but I kept clear of tlie
parish, though plenty of us have to come on tlie
parish. Much in pawn, sir? I have so; look
at my place. It was a nice place once. Most
of what you may call the regular hands has
been brought up as deal-porters. I don't
know how many you may call regular at our
dock, it varies; working and waiting for a
turn; but we've no regular turn at work;
there's 100 perhaps, or near about it. Ours is
veiy hard and very dangerous work. Last
year one man was killed by a fall, and two
aoo
LONDON LAIiOlR AND THE LONDON POOR.
had broken Ic^, and two had broken thighs ;
Ijut it was on easy year for accidents. There
is no fund to help or to bury us, only the
parish. In a bad case we're carried to the
Dreadnought, or some hospital. We are all of
us dissatisfied. I wish I could have 13«. 0</.
a-duy for regular work, nnd I'd live :20 years
loiigt?r than I bhall now, with nothing t*) do
oni.' (l:iy and tearing my suul out witli slaving
work the others."
The n>sult of all my inrpiiries shows that the
deal-porters in nowise cxngqcrated tlie hard-
ness or the danger of their labours. I saw
them at work, walking along planks, some
filofiing from an elevated pile of timber to one
somewhat more elevate«l, the plonk 'vibrating
as two men carrying a d«'al trod slowly and
in measure along it, and so they proceed
from one pile to anotlier, beginning, perhaps,
frtjm the barge until tlie deals have been duly
deposited. From a distance, when only the
dimini<<liod thickness of the plank is visible,
they appear to be walking on a mere stick ;
the s})ace so traversed is generally short, but
the mode of conveyance seems rude and
primitive.
Account of the Casual Labourers.
In the foregoing narratives frequent men-
tion has been made of the Casual Labourers at
the timber-docks ; and I now ])roceed to give
some short account of the condition and earn-
ings of this most wretched class. On the
platform siuroimding the Commercial Dock
basins ore a number whom I Imve heard de-
scribed OS " idlers," " pokers," and " casual
labourers." These men are waiting in hopes
of a job, which they rarely obtain until all the
known hands have been set to work before
them. 'I'lie casual labourers confine them-
selves to no particular dock, but resort to the
one which they account tlie most likely to
want hands ; and some even of the more re-
gularly employed deal -porters clionge their
docks occasionally for the same reason. These
changes of locality pu7.zle the regulai* deal-
porters in the estimation of the number of
hands in their calling at the respective docks.
On my visits the casual labourers were less
num< rouK than usual, as the summer is the
season when such persons consider that they
have the best chance in the country. But
1 saw groups of 10 and *<^0 waiting about
the docks; some standing alone, and some
straggling in twos and threes, as they waited,
all looking dull and listless. These men,
thus W(*arisomely waiting, coidd not be called
ragged, for they wore mostly strong canvas
or fustian suits — large, ond seemingly often
washed jackets, predominating ; and rents, and
tatters are far less common in such attire
than in woollen-cloth garments. From a
man dressed in a lai^ge, coarse, canvas jacket,
with worn corduroy trousers, and very heavy
and very brown laced-lcather boots, 1 had the
following statement, in a somewfaat provincial
tone: —
** My father was a small farmer in DorseU
shire. I was middling educated, aod may
thank the parson for it. I can read the Bible
and spell most of the names there. I vat
left destitute, and I had to shift for myaelf — -
that's nine year ago, I think, r^e hun-
gered, and I've ordered my bottle d wine
since, sir. I got the wine when railways wat
all the go ; and I was a navvy ; bni I didn't
like wine-drinking ; I drank it just for theftm
of the tiling, or mayhap because gentlemen
drink it. The port was like rather rough
beer, but stronger, certainly. Sherxy I oo^
had once or twice, and liked good ale better.
I shifted my quarters every now and then tiU
within two or three years ago, and then I tried
my hand in London. At first Mr. — ^ (a
second cousin of my father he was) helped ue
now and then, and he gave me odd jobs tft
portering for himself, as he was a grocer, and
he got me odd jobs from other people beiidM. •
When I was a navvy I should at the best tinM
have had my 50ji. a- week, and more if it hadnt
been for the tommy-shops; and I've had my
1 5s. a- week in portering in London for ittj
cousin ; but sometimes I came down to lOa,
and sometimes to 5s. My cousin died soddo^
and I was very hard up after that I midi
nothing at portering some weeks. I had no
one to help me ; and in the spring of last year-*
and very cold it often was — I've walked after
10, 11, or 12 at night, many a mile to he
down and sleep in any bye-place. I never
Ktole, but have been hard tempted. Pre
thought of drowning myself, and of hanging
myself, but somehow a penny or two came is
to stop that Perhaps I didn't seriously intend
it. I begged sometimes of an evening. I
stayed at lodging-houses, for one can't aleap
out in bad weather, till I heard from one
lodger that he took his turn at the Commerciil
Dock. He worked at timber, or com, or any-
thing ; and so I went, about the cholera time
last year, and waited, and run from one doefc
to another, because I was new and hadnt •
chance like the old hands. I've had 14j. ••
week sometimes ; and many's the week Vn
had three, and moro's the week Tve had no-
thing at all. They've said, * I don't knowyoo.'
Fve lived on penny loaves — one or two a-dM*,
when there was no work, and then I've begged.
I don't know what the other people waiting tt
any of the docks got I didn't talk to then
much, and they didn't talk much to me.**
THE DOCK-LABOURERS.
I SHALL now pass to the labourers at the
docks. This transition I am indooed to make^
not because there is any affinity between the
kinds of work performed at the two pUoee;
but because the docks constitute, as it woa, •
sort of home colony to Spitalfields, to wbkib
LONDON LABOUR ASD THE LoSDON POOJi,
301
the nnemplojod weaver migrates in the hope
of bettering his condition. From this it would
le generally imagined that the work at the
doeks was either better paid, less heavy, or
more easily, and therefore more regularly, ob-
tained. So fiir from such being the fact, how-
ever, the labonr at the docks appears to be not
only mora onerous, but doubly as precarious
as that of weaving ; while the average earnings
of the entire class seems to be less. What,
then, it will be asked, constitutes the induce-
ment for the change? Why does the weaver
abandon the ealling of his life, and forsake an
oeeopation that at least appears to have, and
aetttally had iu the days of better prices, a
refining and intellectual tendency ? Why does
he quit his graceful art for the mere muscular
labour of the human animal ? This, wo shall
find, ahses porely from a desire for some out-
oMoor employment. And it is a consequence
of all skilled labour — since tlie acquirement of
Iba skill is the result of long practice — that if
the srt to which the operative has been edu.
eated is abandoned, he must take to some un-
ddlled labour as a means of subsistence. I
pass, then, to the consideration of the iu-
eomings and condition of the dock-la1)ourei*s
of the metropolis, not because the cliiss of
labour is similar to that of weaving, but because
tke two classes of labourers ai*e locally associ-
ated. I would rather have pursued some
noce systematic plan in my inquiries ; but in
the present state of ignorance as to the general
oeeopation of tlie poor, system is impossible.
lam unable to generalise, not being acquainted
with the particulars ; for each day's investi-
gilion brings me incidentally into contact with
i means of living utterly unknown among tho
weiLfed portion of society. All I can at pre-
sent assert is, that the poor appear to admit
of being classified according to their employ-
ments under three heads — artiznns, labourers,
ind petty traders ; tho first class ronsit^tiug of
skilled, and tho second of unskilled workmen ;
vhile the third comprises hawkers, coster-
mongers, and such other small dealers, who
•re contradistinguished from the larger ones
by brin^g their wares to the consumer instead
of leavmg (he consumer to seek the wares.
Of the skilled workmen few are so poorly paid
for their labour as not to obtain a sufhciency
for the satiafaction of their wants. The amount
of wsges is generally considered above the
nun required for tho positive necessaries of
life ; that is to say, for appeasing an appetite
or allaying a pain, rathor than gratit^ing a
desire. The class of Spitalfields weavers, how-
ever, appear to constitute a striking execpiioii
to the rule, from what cause I do not even
venture to conjecture. But with the imskilled
labourer the amount of remuneration is seldom
much above subsistence-point, if it be not very
f^nently below it Such a labourer, com-
mercially considered, is, as it were, a human
steam-engine, supplied with so much f\iel in
the shape of food, merely to set him in motion.
If lie can be made to perform the saiue amount
of work with half the consiunption, why a
saving of one-half the expense is supposed to
be effected. Indeed, tlie grand object in the
labour-market of the [>resent day appears to
be to economise human fuel. If the living
steam-engine can be made to work as long
and as well Arith a less amount of conl, just so
much the better is the result considered.
The dock-labourers are a striking instance
of mere brute force with brute appetites. This
class of hibour is as unskilled as the power
of a hurricane. ^lere muscle is all that is
needed ; hence every human locomotive is ca-
pable of working there. All that is wanted is
the power of moving heavy bodies from one
place to another. JMr. Stuart Mill tells us
tliat labour in the physical world is always
and solely employed in putting objects in mo-
tion ; and assuredly, if this be the principle of
physical labour, tho docks exhibit the perfec-
tion of human action. Dock-work is precisely '
the ofH(;e tliat everj' kind of man is fitted
to perlbrm, and there we find every kind of
man performing it. Those who are unable to
live by the occupation to which they have
been educated, can obtain a living there without
any previous training. Hence we find men of
every calling labouring at the docks. There
are decayed and bankrupt master- butchers,
niostor-bakers, publicans, grocers, old soldiers,
old sailors, Polish refiii^'ees, broken-down gen-
tlemen, discharged lawyers' clerks, suspended
government clerks, almsmen, pensioners, ser-
vants, thieves — indeed, every oue who wants a
loaf, and is willing to work for it. The London
Dork is one of the few places in the metro-
polis where men can get employment without
either character or recommendation, so that
tlie lal)ourei*s employed there are naturally a
most incongnions assembly. Each of the
docks employs sevend hundred hands to ship
and discharge the cargoes of the numerous
vessels that enter ; and as there are some six
or seven of such docks attached to the metro-
polis, it may be imagined how largo a number
of individuals are dependent on them for their
subsistence. At a rough calculation, there
must be at least 20,000 souls getting their
living by such means.
The London Dock.
Before procetding to give an account of the
London L)o<'k itself, let me thus publicly tender
my thanks to Mr. Powles, the intelligent and
oblip:iiig secretary, for the ready manner in
which he placed the statistics of the company
at my service. Had I experienced from the
deputy- superintendent tlie same courtesy and
consideration, the present exposition of the
state of the labourers employed in the London
Dock would, doubtless, have been more full
and complete. But tho one gentleman seemed
as anxious to withhold information as the
other was to impart it Indeed, I found in
3U2
LONJJOS LABOUR ASD THE LONDON POOR.
the first instanoe, that the orders given by the
deputy-superiiitendent thronghout the dock to
each of the different ofi&cers were, that no
answers shonid be made to any inquiries I
might put to them ; and it was not until I had
communicated my object to the secretary that
I was able to obtain the least information con-
cerning even Uie number of hands employed
at different times, or the amount of wages
paid to ihem.
I shall now give a brief statement of the
character, rouditinn , and capairity of the London
Dock. After which, Uie doscripti<in of the kind
of labour performed there ; and then the class
of labourers performing it will follow in due
order.
The London Dock occupies an area of
ninety acres, and is situated in the three
parishes of St. George, Shudwell, and Wap-
ping. The population of those three parittheH
m 1H41 was Ad.DUO, and the number of inha-
bited houses 80()0. which covered a space equal
to 3.'38 acres. ThiH is in the proiKirtion of
twenty- tliree inhabited houses to an acre and
seven individuals to each house. The number
of persons to each inhabited house is, despite
of the crowded lodging-houses with which it
abounds, not beyond tlie average for all Lon-
don. I have already shown that Dethnal-
green, which is said to possess the greatest
number of low-rented houses, hod only, upon
an average, seventeen inhabited houses to each
acre, while the avemge through London was
but 3'«) houses per acre. So that it appears that
in tlie three parishes of SL George's-in-the-
East, Shadwvll, and Wapping, the htuises are
more tlian four times more crowded than in the
other parts of London, and more numerous by
half as many again than those even in Uie low.
rented diHtrictof Betlmal-green. This affords
us a good criterion as to the character of tlie
neigh bourhootl,and, consequently, of the people
living in the vicinity of the London Dock.
The courts and dleys round about the dock
swarm with low lodging-houses; and are in-
habited either by the dock-labourers, sack-
makers, watermen, or that peculiar class of the
London poor who pick up a living by the
water-side. The open streets themselves have
all more or less a maritime character. £ver>'
other shop is either stocked witli Rear for the
ship or for tlie sailor. The windows of one
house ore filletl with quadrants and bright
brass sextants, chronometers, and huge mari-
ners' compasses, ^-ith Uieir cards trembling
with the motion of the cabs and waggons pausing
in the street. Then comes the sailors' cheap
shoe-mart, rejoicing in tlie attractive sign of
**Jack and his Mother." Kver>' public- house
is a ** Jolly Tar,** or something equally taking.
Then come aailmakers, their windows stowed
with ropes and Unes smelling of tor. All the
grocers are pro\i8ion-agents, and exhibit in
their windows the cases of meat and biscuits ;
and every article is warranted to keep in any
climate. The comers of the streets, too, are
mostly monopolised by dopselkii ; their win-
dows parti-oolonred with bright red-aad-blua
flannel shirts; the doors neariy blocked np
with hammocks and ^ well-oiled noi^-wesfiers;"
and the front of the house itself aeariy covered
with canvas trousers, rough pilot-eoate, nd
shiny black dreadnoughts. The paasengen
alone would tell you that yon were in tihe
maritime districts of London. Now yon meet
a satin-waisteoated mate, or a black saUorwith
his large frur cap, or else a Custom-house ofllcer
in hit* brass-buttoned jacket.
The London Dock can accommodate JtOO
ships, and the warehouses will contain 383^
tons of goods. The entire structure eoit
4,0(X),U()0/. in money : the tobacco warehoom
alone cover five acres of ground. The widl
surrounding the dock cost 05,000/. One of
the wine-vaults has an area of seven acres, tad
in the whole of them there is room for stowing
00,000 pipes of ?rino. The warehouses roond
the wharfs are exposing fVom their extent, but
are much less lofty than those at St. Kathe-
rine's; and being situated at some distanee
fh>ra the dock, goods cannot be craned ovt
of the ship's hold and stowed away at OM
operation. According to the last half-yeulj
report, the number of ships which entered the
dock during the six mouths ending the Slst
of May last was 704, measuring upwards of
105,000 tons. The amount of ewninge during
that period was 230,000/. and odd, and the
amount of expenditure nearly 12l/)00/. The
stock of goods in the warehouses last May wti
upwards of 170,000 tons.
Aa you enter the dock the sight of the forest
of masts in the distance, and the tall chimneys
vomiting clouds of black smoke, and the many
coloured flags fljing in the air, has a most
peculiar etiect; while the sheds with the
monster wheels arching through the reoti
look Uke the paddle-boxes of huge steamen.
Along the quay you see, now men with their
faces blue with indigo, and now gaugen, with
their long brass-tipped rule dripping with
spirit fh)m the caak they have been probnig.
Then will come a group of flaxen-haired sailofl
chattering German; and next a black saikr,
with a cotton handkerchief twisted turban-like
round his head. Presently a blue-smocked
butcher, with fresh meat and a buneh of cab-
bages in the tray on his shoulder ; and shortlff
afterwards a mate, with green paroquets in a
wooden cage. Here you will see sitting on a
bench a sorrowfkd.looking woman, irith new
bright cooking tins at her feet, telling yon she
is an emigrant preparing for her voyage. As
you pass along this quay the air is pungent
with tobacco ; on that it overpowers you wifli
the fumes of rum ; then you are nearly sirk-
nned with the stench of hides, and huge bins
uf horns ; and shortly afterwards the atmo-
sphere is frngrant with coffee and spice.
Nearly everywhere you meet stacks of cork, or
else yellow bins of sulphur, or lead-colomed
ci*pper-ore. As you enter this warehoose, the
■}
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
803
flooring is sticky, as if it had been newly
taiTCMi, with the sugar that has leaked through
the cakks ; and as you descend into the dark
TfioUs, you see long lines of lights hanging
from Uie black arches, and lamps flitting about
midwaj. Here you sniif the fumes of the
wine, and there the peculiar fungus-smell of
dry rot; then the jumble of sounds as you
pass along the dock blends in anything but
sweet concord. The sailors are singing bois-
tooos nigger songs from the Yankee ship just
entering ; Uie cooper is hammering at the
easks on the quay ; the chains of the cranes,
]oo8«d of their weight, rattle as they fly up
op again ; the ropes splash in the water ; some
captain shonts his orders through his hands ;
a goat bleats from some ship in the basin ;
and empty casks roll along the stones with a
keary drum-like sound. Here the heavUy-luden
ihips are down fiu: below the quay, and you
descend to them by ladders ; whilst in anoUier
basin they are hi^ up out of the water, so
that their green copper sheathing is almost
krel with the eye of the passenger; while
ibovehis head a long line of bowsprits stretches
&r OTcr the quay ; and from tliem hang spars
and planks as a gangway to each ship.
This immense establishment is worked by
from one to three thousand hands, according
as the business is either brisk or slack. Out
of this number there are always 400 to 000
permanent labourers, receiving on an average
16s. 64/. per week, with the exception of
eoopers, oarpenters, smiths, and other me-
chanics, who are paid the usual wages of
those crafts. Besides these are many hun-
dred— frxnn 1000 to 2500 — casual labourers,
who are engaged at the rate of 2s. Qd. per day
in the summer and 2s. ^, in the winter months.
Frequently, in case of many arrivals, extra
hands are hired in the course of the day, at the
rate oT M. per hour. For the permanent la-
bourers a recommendation is required ; but for
the casual labourers no character is demanded.
The number of the casual hands engaged by
the day depends, of course, upon the amount
of woork to be done; and I find that the total
number of labourers in the dock varies from
fiOO to aOOO and odd. On Uie 4th May, 184U,
the number of hands engaged, both permanent
and casual, was 2704 ; on the 2Gth of tlie .same
month it was 8012; and on tbo 30th it was
1169. These appear to be the extreme of
the variation for that year : the fluctuation
is due to a greater or less number of ships
entering the dock. The lowest number of ships
entering the dock in any one week last year
I waa 29, while the highest number was 141.
I This rise and fall is owing to the prevalence
I of easterly winds, which serve to keep the
I shipe back, and so make the business slack.
' Now, deducting the lowest number of hands
employed fh>m the highest number, we have
no less than 1823 individuals wlio obtain so
precarious a subsistence by their labour at the
docks, that by the mere shiiling of the wind
they may be all deprived of their doily bread.
Calculating the wages at 2s. 6</. per day for
each, the company would have paid 376/. 10a.
to the 3012 hands employed on the 26th of
May 1840 ; while only 148/. 12s. 6</. would have
been paid to the 1180 hands engaged on the
30th of the same month. Hence, not only
would 1823 hands have been thrown out of
employ by the chopping of the wind, but the
labouring men dependent upon the business
of the docks for their subsistence would in one
day have been deprived of 227/. 17s. Qd. This
will afford the reader some faint idea of tho
precarious character of the subsistence obtained
by the labourers employed in this neighbour-
hood, and, consequently, as it has been well
proved, that all men who obtain their liveli-
hood by irregular employment are the most
intemperate and improvident of all.
It will be easy to judge what may be tlie
condition and morals of a class who to-day, as
a body, may earn near upon 400/., and to-
morrow only 150/. I had hoped to have been
able to have shown the fluctuations in the
total amount of wages paid to the dock-labour-
ers for each week throughout the whole year ;
and so, by contrasting the comparative afflu-
ence and comfort of one week with the distress
and misery of the otlur, to have afforded the
reader some more virid idea of the body of
men who are performing, perhaps, the heaviest
labour, and getting the most fickle provision
of all. But still I will endeavour to impress
him with some faint idea of the struggle there
is to gain the uncertain daily bread. Until I
saw with my own eyes this scene of greedy
despair, I could not have believed that there
was so mad an eagerness to work, and so biting
a want of it, among so vast a body of men. A
day or two before 1 had sat at midnight in the
room of the star\-ing weaver ; and as I heard
him tell his bitter story, there was a patience
in his misery that gave it more an air of
heroism than desperation. But in the scenes
I have lately witnessed the want has been
positively tragic, and the struggle for life par-
taking of the sublime. The reader must first
remember what kind of men the casual labour-
ers generally are. They are men, it should be
borne in mind, who are shut out from the
up.ual means of life by the want of character.
Ilonce, you are not astonished to hear from
those who are best acquainted with the men,
that there are hundreds among the body who
ai'e known thieves, and who go to the docks to
seek a living ; so that, if taken for any past of-
fence, their late industry may plead for some
little lenity in their punishment.
He who wishes \A behold one of the most
extraordinary and least-known scenes of this
metropohs, should wend his way to the London
Dock gates at half-past seven in the morning.
There ho will see congregated within the prin-
cipal entrance masses of men of all grades,
looks, and kinds. Some in half-fashioned
surtouts burst at the elbows, with the dirty shirts
^o. LXMI.
304
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOJEU
fthowing through. Others in greasy Kporting
jackets, with red pimpled faceH. Othei-s in
the rngs of their half-slang gentility, with the
velvet collars of their paletots worn through
to the canvas. Some in rusty black, with their
waistcoats fastened tight up to the throat.
Others, again, witli the knowing tliieves' curl
on each side of the jaunty cap ; whilst here
and there you may see a big-whiskered Pole,
with his hands in the pockets of his plaited
French trousers. Some loll outside the gates,
smoking the pipe which is forbidden within ;
but these are mostly Irish.
Presently you know, by the stream pouring
through the gates and the rush towards par-
ticular spots, that the '* calling foremen"
have made their appearance. Then begins
the scuffling and scrambling forth of counUess
hands high in the air, to catch the eye of him
whose voice may give them work. As the
foreman calls from a book the names, some
men jump up on the backs of the others, so as
to lift themselves high above the rest, and
attract the notice of him who hires them. All
are shouting. Some cry aloud his surname,
Rome his christian name, others call out their
own names, to remind him that they are there.
Now the appeal is made in Irish blarney —
now in broken English. Indeed, it is a sight
to sadden the most callous, to see thousands
of men struggling for only one day's hire; the
scuffle being made the fiercer by the knowledge
that hundreds out of the number there as-
sembled must be left to idle the day out in
want To look in the fi&ces of that hungry
crowd is to see a sight that must be ever re-
membered. Some are smiling to the foreman
to coax him into remembrance of them ; others,
with their protruding eyes, eager to snatch at
the hoped-for pass, For weeks many have
gone there, and gone through the same struggle
—the same cries ; and have gone away, after
all, without the work they had screamed for.
"From this it might be imagined that the work
was of a peculiarly light and pleasant kind,
And 80, when I first saw the soene, I oould not
help imagining myself. But, in reality, the la-
\}OVff is of that heavy and continuous character
that yon woiild fancy only the best fed conld
stand it« The Work mdy be divided into three
classes. 1. Wheel-work, or that which is
moved by the muscles of the legs and weight
of the body ; 2. jigger, or winch- work, or that
which is moved by the muscles of the arm.
In each of these the labourer is stationary; but
in the truck work, which forms the third class,
the labourer has to travel over a space of
ground greater or less in proportion to the
distance which the goods have to be removed.
The wheel-work is performed somewhat on
the system of the treadwheel, with the excep-
tion that the force is applied inside instead of
outside the wheel. From six to eight men
enter a wooden cylinder or drum, upon which
are nailed battens, and the men lading hold of
ropes commence treading the wheel round,
occasionally singing the while, and stamping
time in a manner that is pleasant^, from iu
novelty. The wheel is generally about sixteen
feet in diameter and eight to nine feet broad ;
and the six or eight men treading within it,
will lift from sixteen to eighteen hundz«d
weight, and often a ton, forty times in an hoar,
an average of twenty-seven feet high. Other
men will get out a cargo of from 800 to 900
casks of wine, each cask averaging al>ont fiv»
hundred weight, and being lifted about eigh-
teen feet, in a day and a half. At truckkg
each man is said to go on an average thirty
miles a-day, and two-thirds of that time he ii
mo\'ing IX cwt. at six miles and a-half per hoar.
This laoour, though requiring to be seen ta
be properly understood, must still appear lo
arduous that one would imagine it was not<tf
that tempting nature, that d(KK) men could W
found every day in London desperate enooj^
to fight and battle for the privilege of getting
2t. 6d, by it; and even if they fail in <* getting
taken on" at the commencement of the di^»
that they should then retire to the app<nnteA
yard, there to remain hour after hour in the
hope that the wind might blow them BOBd
stray ship, so that other gangs might be
wanted, and the calling foreman seek them
there. It is a curious sight to see the men
waiting in these yards to be hired at 4f(. pec
hour, for such are the terms given in the aftei
part of the day. There, seated on long bcoiohea
ranged against the wall, they remain, sams
telling their miseries and some their crimet
to one another, whilst others doze away their
time. Bain or sunshine, there can alwqrs be
found plenty ready to catch the 9traj U,atBd,
worth of work. By the size of the shed yoo
can tell how many men sometimea renuon
there in the ^uring rain, rather than ran the
chance of losmg the stray hours' work. Some
loiter on the bridges dose by, and presentilyi
as their practised eye or ear tells them that
the calling foreman is in want of another gang,
they rush forward in a stream towards the gate,
though only six or eight at most cm be hired
out of the hundred or more that are waiting
there. Again the same mad fight takes place
as in the morning. There is the same jump-
ing on benches, the same raising of hands
the same entreaties, and the same fulure »
before. It is strange to mark the change that
takes place in the manner of the men when
the foreman has left. Those that have been
engaged go smiling to their labour. Indeed,
I myself met on the quay just such a chuckKng
gang passing to their work. Those who ait
left behind give vent to their disappointment
in abuse of him whom they had been suppli-
cating and smiling at a few minutes beforp.
Upon talking with some of the unsuccessful
ones, they assured me that the men who had
supplanted them had only gained their enda
by bribing the foreman who had engaged
them. Tliis I made a point of inquiring int<^
and the deputy-warehousekeeper, of whom I
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
805
sought the infonnatio&, soon assured rae, by
the production of his book, that he himself
WAS the person who chose the meoi the
foreman merely executing his orders : and
this, indeed, I found to be tbe ciLstom through-
oat the dock.
At four o'clock the eight hours' labour ceases,
and then comes the paying. The names of
Uie men are called out of the muster-book,
•fid each man, as he answers to the cry, has
half-a-crown given to him. So rapidly is this
done that, in a quarter of an hour, the whole
of the men have had their wages paid them.
Xhej then pour towards the gate. Here two
constables stand, and as each man passes
through the wicket, he takes his hat otf, and
is felt fttmi head to foot by the dock-officers
«nd attendant: and yet, with all the want,
misery, and temptation, the millions of pounds
of property amid which they work, and the
jjwiuaands of pipes and hogsheads of wines
•nd spirits a]x)ut the docks, I am informed,
npon the best authority, that there are on an
average but thirty charges of drunkenness in
^e course of the year, and only eight of dis-
bonesty eveiy month. This may, perhaps,
ttise from the vigilance of the superintend-
ents; but to see the distressed condition of
the men who seek and gain employment in
the London Dock, it appears almost incre-
dible, that out of so vast a body of men, with-
out means and without character, there should
he so little vice or crime. There still remains
one corioaa circumstance to be added in con-
Aozion with the destitution of the dock-la-
bourers. Close to the gate by which they are
obliged to leave, sits on a coping-stone the
refreshment man, with his two large canvas
pockets tied in front of him, and filled with
silver and copper, ready to give change to
those whom ho has trusted with their dmner
that day imtil they were paid.
As the men passed slowly on in a double
iUe towards the gate, I sat beside the vic-
tualler, and asked him what constituted the
general dinner of the labourers. He told me
that he supplied them with pea-soup, bread
Bnd cheese, saveloys, and beer. *' Some," he
said, "had twice as much as others. Some
had a pennyworth, some had eatables and a
pint of beer; others, two pints, and others
xbor, and some spend their whole half-crown
in eating and drinking." This gave me a
more clear insight into the destitution of the
aieu who stood there each morning. Many
of them, it was clear, came to the gate >vithout
the means of a day's meal, and, being hired,
^ere obliged to go on credit for the very food
they worked upon. What wonder, then, that
the calling foreman should be often carried
^any yards away by the struggle and rush of
the men around him seeking employment at
liis hands ! One gentleman assm-ed me that
lie had been taken off his feet and hunied a
distance of a quarter of a mile by the eagerness
of th3 impatient crowd around him.
Having made myself acquainted with the
character and amount of the labour peiformed,
I next proceeded to make inquiries into the
condition of the labourers themselves, and
thus to learn the average amount of their
wages from so precarious an occupation. For
this purpose, hearing that there were several
cheap lodging-houses in the neighbourhood, I
thought I should be better enabled to arrive
at an average result by conversing with the
inmates of them, and thus endeavouring to
elicit from them some such statements of
their earnings at one time and at another, as
would enable me to judge what was their
average amount throughout the year. I had
heard the most pathetic accounts from men
in the waiting-yard; how they had been six
weeks vrithout a day's hire. I had been told
of others who had been known to come there
day after day in the hope of getting sixpence,
and who lived upon the stray pieces of bread
given to them in charity by their fellow-la-
bourers. Of one person I was informed by a
gentleman who had sought out his history in
pure sympathy, from the wretchedness of the
man's appearance. The man had once been
possessed of 500/. a-year, and had squandered
it all away ; and through some act or acts that
I do not &el myself at liberty to state, had lost
caste, character, friends, and everything that
coiUd make hfe easy to liim. From that time
he had sunk and sunk in the world, until, at
last, he had found him, with a lodging-house
fbr his dwelUng-place, liie associate of thieves
and pickpockets. His only means of hving at
this time was bones and rag-grubbing; and
for this purpose the man would wander
through the streets at three every morning, to
see what httle bits of old iron, or rag, or refuse
bone he could find in the roads. His prin-
cipal source of income I am informed, from
such a source as precludes the possibility of
doubt, was by picking up the refuse ends of
cigars, drying them, and selhng them at one-
halfpenny per ounce, as tobacco, to the thieves
with whom he lodged.
However, to arrive at a fair estimate as to
the character and the comings of laboiurers ge-
nerally, I directed my guide, after the closing
of the docks, to take me to one of the largest
lodging-houses in the neighbourhood. The
young man who was with me happened to
know one of the labourers who was lodpjing
there, and having called him out, I told him
the object of my visit, and requested to be
allowed to obtain information from the la-
bourers assembled -within. The man as-
sented, and directing me to follow him, he led
me through a narrow passage into a small
room on the ground floor, in which sat, I
should thmk, at least twenty or thirty of the
most wretched objects I ever beheld. Some
were shoeless — some coatless — others shirt-
less ; and from all these came so rank and
foul a stench, that I was sickened with a mo-
ment's inhalation of the fetid atmosphere.
806
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
Some of the men were seated in front of a
table, eating soap out of rellow basins. As
thev saw me enter, they gathered round me ;
and I was pro<*eeding to tell them what in-
formation I wished to gather from them, when
in swaggered a drunken man, in a white
canvas suit, who announced himself as the
landlonl of the place, asking whether there
had boon a robbery in the house, that people
should come in without saying " with your
leave " or " by your leave." I explained to him
that I had mistaken the person who had in-
txY)duced mo for the proprietor of the house,
when he grew very abusive, and declared I
should not remain tliere. Some of the men,
however, swore as lustily that I should ; and
after a time succeeded in pacifying him.
He then bade me let him hear what I wanted,
and 1 again briefly stated the object of my
visit. I told him I wished to publish the state
of the dock-labourers in the new^apers, on
which the man burst into an ironical laugh,
and vowed with an oath that he knowed me,
and that the men were a set of b j flats to
be done in that way. ** I know who you are
well enough," he shouted. I requested to be
informed for whom he took me. " Take you
for I " he cried ; " why, for a b j spy I Yon
come here from the Secretary of State, you
know you do, to see how many men I've got
in the house, and what kind they are." This
caused a great stir among the company, and I
could see that I was mistaken for one of the
detectire police. I was located in so wretched
a court, and so far removed ftx)m the street^
with a dead wall opposite, that I knew any
atrocity might bo committed there almost un-
heard : indeed, the young man who had
brought me to the house had warned me of its
dangerous character before I went; bnt,frx)m
the kind reception I had met with from other
labourers, I had no fear. At last the landlord
flung the door wide open, and shouted from
his clenched teeth, ** By G — ! if you aint
soon mizzled, I'll crack your b y skull
open for you ! *• And so saying, he prepared
to make a rush towards me, but was held
back by tlie youth who had brought me to the
place. I felt that it would be dangerous to
remain ; and rising, informed the man that I
would not trouble him to proceed to ex-
tremities.
It was now so late that I felt it would be
imprudent to venture into another such house
that night; so, having heard of the case of a
dock-labourer who had formerly been a clerk
in a Government office, I mode the best of my
way to the place where he resided.
He lived in a top back-room in a small
house, in another dismal court. I was told by
the woman who answered the door to mount
the steep stairs, as she shrieked out to the
man's wife to show me a light. I found the
man seated on the edge of a bed, with six
young children grouped round him. They
were all shoeless, and playing on the bed was
an infant with only a shirt to eorer it. The
room was about 7 feet square, and, with the
man and his wife, there were eight human
creatures living in it. In the middle of the
apartment, upon a chair, stood a washing-tub
fuaming with fresh suds, and from the white
erinkled hands of the wife it was plain that I
had interrupted her in her washing. On one
chair, close by, was a heap of dirty linen, and
on another was flung the newly- washed. There
was a saucepan on the handfhl of fire, and the
only ornaments on the mantelpiece were two
flat-irons and a broken shaving-glass. On
the table at which I took my notes there was
the bottom of a broken ginger-beer bottk
filled with soda. The man was without a coat,
and wore an old tattered and greasy black satin
waistcoat Across the ceiling ran strings to bug
clothes upon. On my observing to the womaa
that I supposed she dried the clothes in that
room, she told me that they were obliged to
do so, and it gave them all colds and bad ^es.
On the floor was a little bit of matting, and on
the shelves in the corner one or two plates.
In answer to my questionings the man told ra«
he had been a dock-labonrer for five or six
years. He was in Her Mi^jesty's Stationery
Oflice. When there he had 130/. a^year. Left
through accepting a bill of exchange for 67U
He was suspended eight years ago, and bad pe-
titioned the Lords of the Treasury, but never
eould get any answer. After that he was oat
for two or three years, going about doing what
he could get, such as writing letten. ** Then,"
said the wife, " you went into Mr. Whats-his-
name*s shop." ** Oh, yes,** answered the man,
*'I had six months' employment at CambenrdL
I had 12s. a-week and my board there."
Before this they had lived upon their things.
He had a good stock of f^uniture and clothing
at that time. The wife used to go out for a
day's work when she could get it. She used
to go out shelling peas in the pea season—
washing or charing— anything she could get
to do. His father was a farmer, well to do.
He should say the*old man was worth a good i
bit of money, and he would have some pro-
perty at his death.
" Oh, sir," said the woman, " we have been
really very bad off indeed; sometimes with-
out even food or firing in the depth of winter.
It is not until recentiy that we have been to
say very badly off, because within the last
four years has been our worst troubb. We
had a very good house — a sevon-roomed
house in Walworth — and well furnished and
very comfortoble. We were in business for
ourselves before we went there. We were
grocers, near Oxford-street. We lived there
at the time when Aldis the pawnbroker's was
burnt down. We might have done well if we
had not given so much credit"
" I've got," said the husband. «* about 901
owing me down there now. It's quite out
of character to think of getting it At Clerk-
enwcll I got a job at a grocer's shop. The
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
807
M in the QneenVbench Prison, and
the mistress employed me at 12«. a-week until
he went thruagh the Insolvent Debtor's Court.
When he passed the Court the business was
sold, and of course he didn't want me after
that. I've done nothing else but this dock-
labouring work for this long time. Took to it
first because X found there was no chance of
anything else. The character with the bill
transaction was veiy much against me : so,
being unable to obtain employment in a whole-
sale house, or anywhere else, I applied to the
docks. They require no character at all tliere.
1 think I may sometimes have had 7 or 8 days
altogether. Then I was out for a fortnight or
three weeks perhaps ; and then we might get
a day or two again, and on some occasion such
a thmg as — well, say July, August, September,
and October. I was in work one year almost
the whole of those months — three years ago
I think that was. Then I did not got any-
thing, excepting now and then, not more tlian
about three days* work until the next March ;
that was owing to the slack time. The first
year I might say that I might have been em-
ployed about one-third of the time. The
second year I was employed six months. The
third year I was very imfortunate. I was laid
np for three months with bad eyes and a
quinsey in the throat, through working in an
iceahip. Ive scarcely had anytliing to do
aince then. That is nearly 18 months ago;
and since then I have had casual employment,
perhaps one, and sometimes two days a-week.
It would average 5«. a-week the whole year.
Within the last few weeks I have, through
a friend, applied at a shipping-merchant's, and
within the month I have had five days' work
with them, and nothing else, except writing a
letter, which I had 2d, for — that's all the em-
ployment I've met with myself. My wife has
been at employment for the last tliree montlis,
she has a place she goes to work at. She has
3<. a-week for washing, for charing, and for
mangling : the party my wife works for has a
mangle, and I go sometimes to help ; for if she
has got 6^. worth of washing to do at home,
than I go to turn the mangle for an hour in-
stead of her, — she's not strong enough."
*• We buy most bread," said the w ife, " and a
bit of firing, and I do manage on a Saturday
night to get them a bit of meat for Sunday if I
possibly can ; but what wiili the soaj), and one
thing and another, that's the only day they do
get a bit of meat, unless I've a bit given me.
As for clothing, I'm sure I can't get them any
unless I have that given me, poor little things."
" Yes, but we have managed to get a httle
bread lately," said the man. "When bread
was \\d. a loaf, Uiat was the time when we
was worse off. Of course we had the seven
chiUlren alive then. We buried one only
three months ago. She was an afflicted little
creature for 10 or 17 mouths: it was one
person's work to attend to her, and was very
badly off for a few months then. We've known
what it was sometimes to go without bread
and coals in the depth of winter. Last Christ-
mas two years we did so for the whole day,
imtil the wife came home in the evening and
brought it might be (Sd. or Qd. according how
long she worked. I was looking after them.
I was at home ill. I have known us to sit
several days and not have more than G<f. to
feed and warm the whole of us for the whole
of the day. We'll buy half-a-quartem loaf,
that'll be ^^d. or sometimes 5rf., and then we
have a penny for coals, that would be pretty
nigh all that we could have for our money.
Sometimes we get a little oatmeal and make
gruel. We had hard work to keep the children
warm at all. What with their clothes and
what we had, we did as well as we could. My
children is very contented ; give 'em bread, and
they're as happy as all the world. That's one
comfort. For instance, to-day we've had half-
a qnai-tem loaf, and we had a piece left of last
night's after I had come home. I had been
earning some money yesterday. We had 2 oz. of
butter, and I had this afternoon a quarter of an
oz. of tea and a pennyworth of sugar. When I
was ill I've had two or three of the children
round me at a time, fretting for want of food.
That was at the time I was ill. A friend gave
me half a sovereign to bury my child. The
parish prorided mc with a cofiiu, and it cost
me about 3j. besides. We didn't have her
taken away from here, not as a parish funeral
exactly. I agreed that if he would fetch it,,
and let it stand in an open space that he had
got there, near his shop, imtil the Saturday,
which was the time, I would give the under-
taker 35. to let a man come with a pall to throw
over the cofiin, so that it should not be seen
exactly it was a parish fimeral. Even the
people in the house don't know, not one of
them, that it was buried in that way. I had
to give 1j. Od. for a pair of shoes before I
coidd follow my child to the grave, and we
paid l5. 9</. for rent, all out of the half
sovereign. I think there's some people at the
docks a great deal worse off than us. I should
say there's men go down there and stand at
that gate from 7 to 12, and then they may get
called in and earn 1j., and that only for two or
three days in the week, after spending the
whole of their time there.".
The scones witnessed at the London Dock
were of so painful a description, the struggle
for one day's work — the scramble for twenty-
four hours' extra- subsistence and extra-life
were of so tragic a chareicter, that I was anxious
to ascertain if possible the exact number of
individuals in and around tlie metropohs who
live by dock laboiur. I have said tliat at one
of the docks alone I foimd that 1823 stomachs
would be deprived of food by the mere chop,
ping of the breeze. "It's an ill wind," says the
proverb, " th.it blows nobody good ;" and until I
came to investigate the condition of the dock-
labourer I could not have believed it possible
that near upon 2000 souls in one place alone
808
LONDON LABOUR AND TBE LONDON POOS.
lived, chameleon-like, upon the air, or that an
easterly wind, despite the wise saw. could
deprive so many of bread. It is indeed " a
nipping and an eager air.'' That the suste-
nance of thousands of families should he as
fickle as the very breeze itself; that the
weathercock should be the index of daily want
or daily cose to such a vast number of men,
women, and children, was a climax of misery
and wretchedness that I could not have im-
agined to exist; and since that I have wit-
nessed such scenes of squalor, and crime, and
suffering, as oppress the mind even to a feeling
of awe.
The docks of London are to a superficial
obsen*er the very focus of metropolitan wealth.
The cranes creak with the mass of riches. In
the warehouses are stored goods that are as it
were ingots of untold gold. Above and below
(n'ound you see piles upon piles of treasure
that the eye cannot compass. The wealth
appears as boundless as tlie very sea it has
traversed. The brain aches in an attempt to
comprehend the amount of riches before,
above, and beneath it There are acres upon
acres of treasure, more than enough, one would
fancy, to stay the cravings of the whole world,
and yet you have but to visit the hovels grouped
round about all this amazing excess of riches
to witness the some amazing excess of poverty.
If the incomprehensibility of tlie wealth rises
to sublimity, assuredly the want that co-exists
with it is equally incomprehensible and equally
sublime. Pass firom the quay and warehouses
to the courts and tUXeys Uiat surround them,
and the mind is as bewildered with the desti-
tution of the one place as it is with the super-
abundance of the other. Many come to see
the riches, but few the poverty, abounding in
absolute masses round the far-famed port of
London.
According to the offidal returns, there be-
longed to this port on the dlst of December,
184i«, veiy nearly 8000 ships, of the aggregate
burden of 600,000 tons. Besides that there
were 239 steamers, of 50,000 tons burden ; and
the crews of the entire nimiber of ships and
steamers amounted to 85,000 men and boys.
The number of British and foreign ships that
entered the port of London during the same
year was 0400 and odd, whose capacity was
upwards of a million and a quarter of tons,
and the gross amount of customs duly col-
lected upon their cargoes was very nearly
12,000/. of money. So vast an amount of
shipping and commerce, it has been truly said,
was never concentrated in any other single
port.
Now, against this we must set the amount
of misery that co-exists with it. We have
Bhown that the mass of men dependent for
their bread upon the business of only one of
the docks are, by the shifting of the breeze,
occasionally deprived in one day of no less
than 220/., the labourers at the London Dock
earning as a body near upon 400/. to-day, and
to-morrow acarcelj 1501. These docks, how-
ever, are but one of six rimilar establishments
— three being on the north and three on the
south side of the Thames — and all employing
a greater or less number of hands, equally
dependent upon the winds for their subsis-
tence. Deducting, then, the highest from the
lowest number of labourers engaged at the
London Dock — the extremes according to
the books are under 500 and over 3000— we
have as many as 2500 individuals deprived of
a day's work and a living by the prevalence of
an easterly wind; and calculating that the
same effect takes pUce at the other docks—
the East and West India for instance, St,
Katherine's, Commercial, Grand Surrey, and
East Country, to a greater or less extent, and
that the hands employed to load and unload
the vessels entering and quitting all these
places are only four times more than those re-
quired at the London Dock, we have as maoj
as 12,000 individuals or families whose daily
bread is as fickle as the ^dnd itself; whose
wages, in fact, are one day collectively as much
as 1500/. and the next as low as 500/., so that
8000 men are fVequently thrown out of employ,
while the earnings of the class to day amount
to 1000/. less than they did yesterday.
It would be curious to take an avenge
number of days that easterly winds prevaU in
London throughout the year, and so arrive at
an estimate of the exact time that the abofe
8000 men are unemployed in the course of
twelve months. This would s^ve us some
idea of the amount of their aversffe weeUj
earnings. By the labourers themselves I am
assured that, taking one week with another,
they do not gain 5«. weekly throughout the
year. I have made a point of \'isiting and in-
terrogating a large number of them, in order
to obtain some definite information respecting
the extent of their income, and have found in
only one instance an account kept of the
individual earnings. In that case the wages
averaged within a fraction of 13<. per week,
the total sum gained since the beginning of
the year being 25/. odd. I should state, how*
ever, that the man earning thus much was
pointed out to me as one of the most provi-
dent of the casual labourers, and one, moreover,
who b generally employed. '< If it is possible
to get work, he'll have it," was said of him;
*• there's not a lazy bone in his skin." Be-
sides this he had done a considerable
quantity of piece-work, so that altogether
the man's earnings might be taken as the
very extreme made by the best kind of *' extra
hands."
The man himself gives the following ex-
planation as to the state of the labour-market
at the London Dock. " He has had a good
turn of work," he says, since he has been there*
" Some don't get half what he does. He's not
always employed, excepting when the buMoees
is in anyway brisk, but when a kind of a slack
comes Uie recommended men get the prefer
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
309
ence of tl^ work, and the extras have nothing
to do. This is the hest snmner ho has had
since he has heen in London. Has had a good
bit of piece-work. Obliged to live as he does
because he can't depend on work. Isn't certain
of the second day's work. He's paid off eveiy
night, and can't say whether or not they'll
want iiira on the morrow." The account of his
wages was written in pencil on the cover of an
old memorandum-hook, and ran as follows :
Earned by day-work firom Ist Jan. to 1st) , o ,, «
Aug. 1849 I 16 11 6
By piece-work in August • . • 5 5 8
By day work from 1st Sept to 1st Oct, 3 8 7
£, s. d.
averaging 0 11 10 per week
„ 16 5 „
„ 0 17 If „
Total • ♦ . ^25 6 0
H, then, 13«. bo the average amount of
▼eekly earnings by the most provident, in-
dustrious, and fortunate of the casual labourers
It the docks — and that at the best season —
it may be safely assorted that the lowest grade
of woikmen there do not gain more than 5<.
per week throughout the year. It should be
ranerabered that the man himself says ** some
don't get half what he does," and from a multi-
plicity of inquiries that I have made upon the
subject this appears to be about the truth.
Moreover, we should bear in mind that the
average weekly wages of the dock-labourer,
miserable as they are, are rendered even more
wretched by the uncertain character of the
work on whichthoy depend. Were the income
of the casual labourer at the docks 5«. per
week from one year's end to another the work-
man would know exactly how much he had to
subsist upon, and might therefore be expected
to display some little providence and temper-
ance in the expenditure of his wages. But
irhere the means of subsistence occasionally
rise to 15f. a-week, and occasionally sink to
nothing, it is absurd to look for prudence,
eccnomy, or moderation. Regularity of habits
are incompatible with irregularity of income ;
indeed, the very conditions necessary for the
formation of any habit whatsoever are, that the
act or thing to which we are to become habi-
tuated should be repeated at frequent and re-
gular intervals. It is a moral impossibility
that the class of labourers who are only occa-
sionally employed should be either generally
industrious or temperate — both industry and
temperance being habits produced by con-
stancy of employment and uniformity of in-
come. Hence, where the greatest fluctuation
occiurs in the labour, there, of course, will be
the greatest idleness and improvidence ; where
the greatest want generally is, there we shall
find the greatest occasional excess ; where from
the uncertainty of the occupation prudence is
most needed, there, strange to say, we shall
meet with the highest imprudence of all.
•• Previous to the formation of a canal in the
north of Ireland," says Mr. Porter, in " The Pro-
gress of the Nation," •* the men were improvi-
dent even to recklessness. Such work as they
got before came at uncertain intervals, the
wages insufficient for the comfortable suste-
nance of their families were wasted at the whis-
Jl'i 15 4}
key- shop, and the men appeared to be sunk in
a state of hopeless degradation. From the mo-
ment, however, tliat work was offered to them
which was constant in its natiure and certain in
its duration, men who before had been idle and
dissolute were converted into sober, hard-work-
ing labourers, and proved themselves kind and
careful husbands and fathers ; and it is said
that, notwithstanding the distribution of several
hundred pounds weekly in wages, the whole of
which must be considered as so much ad-
ditional money placed in their hands, the con-
sumption of whisky was absolutely and per-
manently diminished in the district. Indeed
it is a fact worthy of notice, as illustrative of
the tendency of the times of pressure, and con-
sequently of deficient and uncertain employ-
ment, to increase spirit- drinking, that whilst
in the year 1836 — a year of the greatest pros-
perity— the tax on British spirits amounted
only to 2,390,000/. ; yet, under the privations
of 1841, the English poorer classes paid no
less than 2,600,000/. in taxes upon the liquor
they consiuned — thus spending upwards of
200,000/. more in drink at a time when they
were less able to afford it, and so proving that
a fluctuation in the income of the working-
classes is almost invariably attended with an
excess of improvidence in the expenditure.
Moreover, with reference to the dock-labourers,
wo have been informed, upon imquestionable
authority, that some years back there were
near upon 220 ships waiting to be discharged
in one dock alone ; and such was the pressure
of business then, that it became necessary to
obtain leave of Her Majesty's Customs to in-
crease the iisual time of daily labour from
eight to twelve hours. The men employed,
therefore, earned 50 per cent more than they
were in the habit of doing at the briskest
times; but so far from the extra amount of
wages being devoted to increase the comforts
of their homes, it was principally spent in
public-houses. The riot and confusion thus
created in the neighbourhood wore such as
had never been known before, and indeed wero
so general among the workmen, that eveiy re-
spectable person in the immediate vicinity ex-
pressed a hope that such a thing as " overtime "
would never occur again.
It may then be safely asserted, that though
the wages of the casud labourer at the docks
810
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
average 5«. per week, still the weekly eaniiDgs
are of so precarious and variable a nature,
that when the time of the men is folly em-
ployed, the money which is gained over and
above the amount absolutely required for sub-
sistence is almost sure to be spent in intem-
perance, and that when there is little or no
demand for their work, and tlieir gains are
consequently insufficient for the satisfaction of
their appetites, they and those who depend
upon their labour for their food must at least
want, if not starve. The impro\'idence of the
casual dock-labourer is duo, therefore, not to
any particular malformation of his moral con-
stitution, but to the precarious character of
liis calling. His vices are the \iccs of ordinary
human nature. Ninety-nine in every hundred
similarly circumstanced would commit siinilar
enormities. If the very winds could whistle
away the food and firing of wife and children,
I doubt much whether, after a week's or a
monUi's privation, we should many of us be
able to prevent ourselves from falling into the
very same excesses.
It is consoling to moralise in our easy
chairs, after a good dinner, and to assure our-
selves that we should do di£ferently. Self-
denial is not veiy difficult when our stomachs
are full and our backs are warm ; but let us
live a month of hunger and cold, and assuredly
we should be as self-indulgent as they.
I have devoted some time to the investi-
gation of the state of the casual labourers at
the othei* docks, and shall now proceed to set
forth the result of my inquiries.
The West Imsu Dockb.
The West India Docks are about a mile and
a-half from the London Docks. The entire
ground that they cover is 205 acres, so that they
are nearly three times larger than the London
Docks, and more than twelve times more ex-
tensive than those of St Katherine's. Hence
they are the most capacious of all the great
warehousing establishments in the port of
Loudon. The export dock is about 870 yards,
or very nearly half-a-mile in length by 135
yards in width ; its area, therefore, is about 20
acres. The import dock is the same length as
the export dock, and 100 yards wide. The
south dock, which is appropriated both to im-
port and export vessels, is 1,183 yards, or up-
wards of two-thirds of a mile long, with an
entrance to the river at each end; both the
locks, as well as that into the Blaclnrall basin,
being forty feet wide, and largo enough to
admit ships of 1,200 tons burden. The ware-
houses for iiuported goods are on the four
quays of the import dock. They are well con-
trived and of great extent, being calculated to
contain 180,000 tons of merchandise; and
there Las been at one time on the quays, and
in the sheds, vaults, and warehouses, colonial
produce worth 20,000,000/. sterling. The East
India Docks are likewise the property of the
West India Dock Company, having been pur-
chased by them of the East India Company at
the time of the opening of the trade to India.
The import dock here has an area of 18 acres,
and the export dock abont 0 acres. The depth
of water in these docks is greater, and th^
can consequently accommodate ships of greater
burden than any other establishment -on the
river. The capital of both establishments, or
oT the united company, amounts to upwards (^
2.000,000 of money. The West India import
dock can accommodate 300 ships, and the export
dock 200 ships of 300 tons each ; and the East
fndia 'import dock 84 ships, and the export ■
dock 40 ships, of 800 tons each. The nunber
of ships that entered the West India Dock to
load and unload last year was 8008, and the
number that entered the East India Dock 298.
I owe the above information, as well as thai
which follows, to the kindness of the aecretaiy
and superintendent of the docks in questioiL
To the politeness and intelligence of Uie latter
gentleman I am specially indebted. Indeed
his readiness to afford me all the assistanee
that lay in his power, as well as his eoorteqr
and gentlemanly demeanour, formed a marked
contrast to that of the deputy-superintendent of
the London Docks, the one appearing as anxr
ious for the welfare and comfort of the labour-
ing men as the other seemed indiflEerent to it
The transition from the London to the
West India Docks is of a very peculiar cha-
racter. The labourers at the latter place seem
to be more civilised. The scrambling nod
scuffling for the day's hire, which is the strik-
ing feature of the one establishment, is scarcely
distinguishable at the other. It is true there
is the same crowd of labourers in quest of a
day's work, but the struggle to obtttn it is
neither so fierce nor so disorderly in its cha-
racter. And yet, here the casual labourers are
men from whom no character is demanded as
well as there. The amount of wages for the
summer months is the same as at Uie LondM
Docks. Unlike the London Docks, however,
no reduction is made at the East and West
India Docks during the winter.
The labour is as precarious at one establish-
ment as at the other. The greatest number of
hands employed for any one day at the East
and West India Docks in the course of lack
year was nearly 4000, and the smallest number
about 1300. The lowest number of ships thit
entered the docks during any one week in the
present year was 28, and the highest number
200, being a difference of 181 veasela, of an
average burden of 300 tons each. The positive
amount of variation, however, which oceunred
in the labour during the briskest and slackeit
weeks of last year was a difference of upwards
of 2500 in the number of extra workmen em-
ployed, and of about 2000/. in the amount of
wages paid for the six days' labour. I hare
been favoured with a return of the number of
vessels that entered the East and West Indis
Docks for each week in the prasent year, asd
t
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
311
I subjoin a statement of the number arriving
in each of the first fourteen of those weeks.
In the 1st week of all there were 80, tlio 2il
47, the 8d 43, the 4th 48, the 5th 28, the 0th
49, the 7tli 40, the 8th 37, the 0th 42, the 10th
47, the nth 42, the 12th 131, the 13th 200,
and the 14th 85. Hence it appears, that in
the second week the number of ships coming
into dock decreased nearly one-hedf; in Uie
fifth week they were again diminished in a
like proportion, while in the sixth week they
were increased in a similar ratio ; in the
twelfth week they were more than three times
what they were in the eleventh, in the thir-
teenth the number was half as much again as
it was in the twelfth, and in the fourteenth it
was down below half the number of the thir-
teenth, so that it is clear that the subsistence
derived from dock lid>our must be of the most
fickle and doubtful kind.
Tbe St. Eatbsbine's Docs.
No& are the returns firom St. Eatherine's Dock
of a more cheerful character. Here it should be
obaerved that no labourer is employed without
aprevioos recommendation; and, indeed, it is
carious to notice the difference in the appear-
ance of the men applying for work at this
establishment They not only have a more
decent look, but seem to be better behaved
than any other dock-labourers I have yet seen.
The " ticket" system is here adopted — ^that is to
tij, the plan of allowing only such persons to
labour within the docks as have been satis-
faetorily recommended to the company, and
famished with a ticket l>y them in return — this
ticket system, says the statement which has
been kindly drawn up e^ressly for me by the
Boperintendent of the docks, may be worth
notice, at a time when such efforts are making
to improve the condition of the labourers.
It gives an identity and locut standi to the
i&en which casual labourers cannot otherwise
possess, it connects them with the various
grades of oflSccrs xmdor whose eyes they labour,
prevents favouritism, and leads to their quali-
fications being noted and recorded. It also
kolds before them a reward for activity, in-
telligence, and good conduct; because the
vseancies in the list of preferable labourers,
vhich occur during the year, are invariably
filled in the succeeding Januaiy by selecting,
Upon strict inquiry, the best of the extra- ticket
labourers, the vacancies among the permanent
mfn being supplied in like manner from the
list of preferable labourers, while from the
permanent men are appointed the subordinate
officers, as markers, samplers, &g.
Let us, however, before entering into a de-
scription of the class and number of labourers
employed at St Katherine's give a brief descrip-
tion of the docks themselves. The lofty walls,
'Which constitute it in the language of the
Custom-house a place of Kpecial security, en-
close on area of 23 acres, of which 11 are
water, capable of accommodating 120 ships,
besides barges and other craft; cargoes are
raised into the warehouses out of the hold of
a ship, without the goods being deposited on
the quay. The cargoes can be raised out of
the ship's hold into the warehouses of St.
Katherine's in one-fifth of the usual time.
Before the existence of docks, a month or six
weeks was taken up in discharging the cargo
of an East-Indiaman of from 800 to 1200 tons
burden, while 8 days were necessary in the
summer and 14 in the winter to unload a ship
of 350 tons. At St. Katherine's, however, the
average time now occupied in discharging a
ship of 250 tons is twelve hours, and one of
500 tons two or tliree days, the goods being
placed at the same time in the warehouse:
there have been occasions when even greater
despatch has been used, and a cargo of 1100
casks of tallow, averaging from 0 to 10 cwt
each, has been diseharged in seven hours.
This would have been considered little short
of a miracle on the legal quays less than fifty
yoars ago. In 1841, about 1000 vessels and
10,000 lighters were accommodated at St
Katherine's Dock. The capital expended by
the dock company exceeds 2,000,000 of money.
The business of tliis establishment is carried
on by 35 officers, 105 clerks and apprentices,
135 markers, samplers, and foremen, 250 per-
manent labourers, 150 preferable ticket-la-
bourers, proportioned to the amount of work
to be done. The average number of labourers
employed, permanent, preferable, and extras,
is 109(5 ; the highest number employed on any
one day last year was 1713, and the lowest
number 515, so that the extreme fluctuation
in the labour appears to be very nearly 1200
hands. The lowest sum of money that was
paid in 1848 for the day's work of the entire
body of labourers employed was 64/. 7». 6rf.,
and the highest sum 214/. 2«. Off., being a
difference of very nearly 150/. in one day, or
000/. in the course .of the week. The average
number of ships that enter the dock every
week is 1 7, the highest number that entered
in any one week last year was 36, and
the lowest 5, being a difference of 31. As-
suming these to have been of an average bur-
den of 300 tons, and that every such vessel
would require 100 labourers to discharge its
cargo in three days, then 1500 extra hands
ought to have been engaged to discharge the
cargoes of the entire number in a week. Tliis,
it will be observed, is very nearly equal to the
highest number of the labourers employed by
the company in the year 1848.
The remaining docks are the Commercial
Docks and timber ponds, the Grand Surrey
Canal Dock at Rotherhithe, and the East
Country Dock. The Commercial Docks occupy
an area of about 49 acres, of which four-fifths
are water. There is accommodation for 850
ships, and in thB warehouses for 60,000 tons of
merchandise. They are appropriated to vessels
engaged in the European timber and com
812
LOSDON LABOUR AND THE LOS'DON POOR.
trades, and the Hurronmlin^ warehouses are
used chielly a« grauaries — the timber remain-
ing afloat in the dock until it is conveyed to
thti yard of the wholesale dealer and builder.
Tiie Siurey Dock is merely an i-ntranco basin
to a canal, and can accommodate MOO vessels.
The Kast Country Dock, which adjoins the
Commercial Bocks on the South, is capable of
receiving; 28 tiMib<'r-sIiips. It has an area of
G^ acrrs, and warehouse- mom fur 0700 tons.
In addition to these there is the Regent's
Canal Dock, between Shadwell and LimehousCi
anil though it is a place for bonding timber
and deals only, it nevertheless affords great ac-
commodation to the trade of the port by with-
drawing shipping firom the river.
The number of labourers, casual and per-
manent, em]doyed at these various establish-
ments is so limited, that, taken altogether, the
fluctuations occurring at their briskest and
alackest periods may be reckoned aa equal to
that of Bt Katherine's. Hence the account of
the variation in the total number of hands em-
ployed, and the sum of money paid as wages
to them, by the different dock companies, when
the business is brisk or slocki may be stated
as follows :—
At the London Dock the dif-)
ferenco between the greatest > 2000 bands
and smallcRt number is • )
At the Kast and West India Dock 2500 „
At the St. Katlierine's Dock . 12(M) „
At the remaining docks say . . 1300 „
Total numbiT of dock labourers \ ■
thrown out of employ by the > »-qqq
prevalence of easterly i^inds ) ' ^^
The difference between the highest \ £,
and lowest amount of wages paid | 1500
at the London Dock is . . )
At the East and West India Dock . 1 875
At the St. Katherine Dock . . . {)(K)
At the remaining docks • * .1)75
£5-^50
From the above statement then it appears,
that by the prevalence of an easterly wind no
less than 7000 out of the aggregate number of
persons living by dock labour may bo deprived
of their regular income, and the entire bo<ly
may have as much as 5250/. a week abstracted
firom the amount of their collective earnings,
at a period of active emplojTnent. But the
number of individuals who depend upon the
auantity of shipping entcrini; the port of Lou-
on for their daily subsistence is far beyond
this amount. Indeed we are assured by a
gentleman filling a high situation in St Ka-
therine's Dock, and who, from his sympathy
with the labouring poor, has evidently given
no slight attention to the subject, that taking
into consideration the number of wharf-la-
bourers, dock-labourers, lightermen, riggers
and lumpers, shipwrights, caulkers, -ships'
carpenters, anchor-smiths, corn-porters, fruit
and coal-meters, and indeed all the multi-
farious arts and callings connected with ship,
ping, there are no less than from 2500 to aO.OOO
individuals who are thrown wholly out of
empU»y by a long continuance of eaaierly
winds. Estimating then the gains of this
larg(j body of individuals at 2j. Oct. per daj, or
\bt. por week, when Aillj employedfWe shall
find that the loss to tliose who depend vyoii
the London shipping for their, inbaietenei
amounts to 20,000/. per week, and, eonstdering
thnt such i^iuds are often known to prerailte
a fortnight to three weeks at a time, it fbOovi
that the entire loss to this large dasi vill
amount to from 40,000/. to 60,000/. wiUdtt s
month, — ^an amount of pri>-ation to the labonw
ing poor which it is positively awfiil to eon- -
template. Nor is this the only evil conneetai
with an enduring easterly wind. Diree^f s
chang<; takes place a glut of Tcssels enten tlM
mctropoUtan port, and labourers flock fttsm all
quarters ; indeed they flock lh>m eveiy paii
where the workmen exist in a greater quauUf
than the work. From 500 to 800 Tcssela &••
quently arrive at one time in London after tl^
duration of a contraty wind, and then 8od& i*
the demand for workmen, and bo gnat ths
press of business, owing to the livahy amaog
merchants, and the desire of eaoh owner t»
have his cargo the first in the market, thai %
sufficient number of hands la wcareekj to te
found. Hundreds of extra laboinexv, who ean
find labour nowhere else, are thna lad to acak
work in the docks. But, to use the words of oor
informant, two or three weeks are saffifliaot to
break the neck of an ordinary glut, and tlieii
the vast amount of extra hands that the azoeaa
of business has brought to the neighbomhood
are thrown out of employment, and UdEt to in-
crease either the vagabondism of the nai^
bourhood or to swell the nnmber of
f paiuoa
paiidMa,
and heighten the rates of the acyacent
CnsiF LoDGZHa-Houixs.
I HOW come to the class of cheap lodging-
houses usually firequented by the casual laboi^
ers at the docks. It will be remembered, pal^
haps, that I described one of these placeSi at
well as the kind of characters to be foond
there. Since then I have directed my attention
particularly to this subject; not because it
came first in order according to the course dt
investigation I had marked out for myself, but
because it presented so many peculiar features
that I thought it better, even at the risk of
being unmethodical, to avail myself of the
channels of information opened to me rather
than defer the matter to its proper place, and
so lose the fre<%hncss of the impression it had
made upon my mind.
On my first visit, the want and misery thtt
I saw were such, that, in consulting wih the
gentleman who led me to the spot, it was
arranged that a dinner should bo given on the
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
313
following Sunday to all those who were present
on the evening of my first inter\'iew ; and, ac-
conUngly, enough heef, potatoes, and materials
for a suet-pudding, were sent in from the
neighbouring market to feed tliem every one.
I parted with my guide, arranging to be with
him the next Sunday at half-past one. AVe
met at the time appointed, and sot out on our
way to the cheap lodging-house. Tlie streets
were alive with sailors, and bonnetlcss and
capless women. The Jews' shops and public-
houses were all open, and parties of '* jolly
tars " reeled past us, singing and bawHng on
their way. Had it not been that here and
there a stray shop was closed, it would have
been impossible to have guessed it was Sunday.
We dived down a narrow court, at the entrance
of which lolled Irish labourers smoking short
pipes. Across the court hung lines, from
which dangled dirty-white clothes to dry; and
as we walked on, ragged, unwashed, shoeless
children scampered past us, chasing one
another. At length we reached a large open
yard. In the centre of it stood several empty
ocstermongers* trucks and tumed-up carts,
inth their shafts high in the air. At the
bottom of these lay two young girls huddled
together, asleep. Their bare heads told their
mode of life, while it was evident, from their
muddy Adelaide boots, that they had walked
the streets all night My companion tried to
see if he knew them, but they slept too soundly
to be roused by gentle means. We passed on,
aad a few paces further on Uiere sat grouped
on a door-step four women, of the same cha-
racter as the last two. One had her head
covered up in an old brown shawl, and was
sleeping in the lap of the one next to her.
The o£her two were eating walnuts ; and a
coarse-featured man in knee-breeches and
"ankle-jacks" was stretched on the groimd
doee beside them.
At length we reached the lodging-house.
It was night when I had first visited the place,
and all now was new to me. The entrance
was through a pair of large green gates, which
gave it somewhat the appearance of a stable-
yard. Over the kitchen door there hung a
cbthes-line, on which were a wet shirt and a
pair of ragged canvas trousers, brown with tar.
Entering Uie kitchen, wo found it so full of
smoke that the sim's rays, which shot slanting
down through a broken tile in the roof, looked
like a shaft of light cut through the fog. The flue
of the chimney stood out from the bare brick
wall like a buttress, and was black all the way
Qp with the smoke ; the beams, which hung
down from the roof^ and ran from wall to wall,
^ere of the same colour ; and in the centre, to
light the room, was a rude iron gas-pipe, such
as are used at night when the streets are turned
Up. The floor was unboarded, and a wooden
seat projeeted from the wall all round the
foom. In front of this was ranged a series of
tables, on which lolled dozing men. A number
of the inmates were grouped aroimd the fire ;
some kneeling toasting herrings, of which the
place smelt strongly; others, without shirts,
seated on the ground close beside it for
warmth ; and others drying the ends of cigars
they had picked up in the streets. As we
entered the men rose, and never was so motley
and so ragged an assemblage seen. Their
hair was matted like flocks of wool, and their
chins were grimy with their unshorn boards.
Some were in dirty smock-frocks : others in
old red plush waistcoats, with long sleeves.
One was dressed in an old shooting-jacket,
with large wooden buttons ; a second in a blue
flannel sailor's shirt ; and a third, a mere boy,
wore a long camlet coat reaching to his heels,
and with the ends of the sleeves hanging over
his hands. The features of the lodgers wore
every kind of expression: one lad was posi-
tively handsome, and there was a frankness in
his face and a straightforward look in his eye
that strongly impressed me with a sense of
his honesty, even although I was assured he
was a confirmed pickpocket The young thief
who had brought back the ll^d. change out
of the shilling that had been entrusted to him
on the preceding evening, was far from pre-
possessing, now that I could see him better.
His cheek-bones were high, while his hair, cut
dose on the top, with a valance of locks, as it
were, left hanging in front, made me look
upon him with no slight suspicion. On the
form at the end of the kitchen was one whose
squalor and wretchedness produced a feeling
approaching to awe. His eyes were sunk deep
in his head, his cheeks were drawn in, and his
nostrils pinched with evident want, while his
dark stubbly beard gave a grinmess to his
appearance that was almost demoniac; and
yet there was a patience in his look that was
almost pitiable. His clothes were black and
shiny at eveiy fold with grease, and his coarse
shirt was so brown with long wearing, that it
was only with dose inspection you could see
that it had once been a checked one : on his
feet he had a pair of lady's side-laced boots,
the toes of which had been cut off* so that he
might get them on. I never beheld so gaunt
a picture of famine. To this day the figure of
the man haunts me.
The dinner had been provided for thirty,
but the news of the treat had spread, and
there was a muster of fifty. We hardly knew
how to act It was, however, left to those
whose names had been taken down as being
present on the previous evening to say what
should be done; and the answer from one
and all was that the new-comers were to share
the feast with them. The dinner was then
half-portioned out in an adjoining outhouse
into twenty-five platefuls — die entire stock of
crockery belonging to the establishment num-
bering no more — and afterwards handed into
the kitchen through a small window to each
party, as his name was called out As he
hurried to the seat behind the bare table, he
commenced tearing the meat asunder with his
du
LOSDON LABODE AND THE LONDON POOS.
fingers, for knives and forks were unknown
tlicrc. Some, it is true, used bits of wood like
skewors, but this seemed almost like affecta-
tion in suc)i a place : others sat on the ground
with the plate of meat and pudding on their
lapn; wliile the beggar-boj, immediately on
receiving his portion, danced along the room,
whiiiing the pUite round on his Uinmb as he
went, and then, dipping his nose in the plate,
seized a potato in ms mouth. I must confSess
the sight of the hnngiy crowd gnawing their
food was for from pleasant to contemplate;
so, wliile the dinner was being discussed, I
sought to learn from those who remained to
be helped, how thej had fallen to so degraded
a state. A sailor lad assured me he had been
robbed of his mariner's ticket; that he ootdd
not procure another under 13<. ; and not having
as many pence, he was unable to obtain ano-
ther ship. What could he do? he said. He
knew no trade : he could only get employment
occasionally as a labourer at the docks ; and
this was so seldom, that if it had not been for
the few things he had, he must have starved
outright The good-looking youth I have
before spoken of wanted but 8/. lOt. to get
back to America. He had worked his passage
over here; had fallen into bad company; been
imprisoned three times for picking pockets;
and was heartily wearied of his present course.
Ho could get no work. In America he wotdd
be happy, and among his friends again. I
spoke to the gentleman who had brought me
to the spot, and who knew them all welL
His answers, however, gave me little hope.
The boy, whose face seemed beMning with
innate frankness and honesty, had been ap-
prenticed by him to a shoe-stitcher. But, no!
he preferred vagrancy to work. I could have
8wom he was a trustworthy lad, and shall
never believe in ** looks" again.
The dinner finished, I told the men assem-
bled there that I should oome some ayening
in the course of the week, and endeavour to
ascertain fh>m them some definite information
concerning the persons usually fr^nenting
such houses as theirs. On our way home, my
friend recognised, among the femides we had
before seen huddled on the step outside the
lodging-house, a young woman whom he had
striven to get back to her parents. Her
father had been written to, and would gladly
receive her. Again the girl was exhorted to
leave her present companions and return
home. The tears streamed from her eyes at
mention of her mother's name ; but she would
not stir. Her excuse was, that she had no
clothes proper to go in. Her father and mo-
ther were very respectable, she said, and she
could not go back to them as she was. It was
erident, by her language, she had at least
been well educated. She would not listen,
however, to my friend's exhortations ; so, see-
ing that his entreaties were wasted upon her,
we left her, and wended our way home.
Knowing that this lodging-house might be
taken as a fair sample of the class now t-
bounding in London, and, moreover, liaving
been informed by those who had made the
subject their peculiar study, that the charaeten
generally congregated there constituted a fair
average of the callings and habits of those who
resort to the low lodg^g-houses of London, I
was determined to avail myself of the acquaiat-
ances I made in this quarter, in order to arrive
at some more definite information upon those
places than had yet been made public. The
only positive knowledge the public have hitherto
had of the people assembling in the cbe^p
lodging-houses of London is derived chie^
from the Report of the Constabulary Couinus>
sioners, and partly from the Report upon Vs.
grancy. But this information, having be«a
procured through others, was so faulty, tbit
having now obtained the privilege of personti
inspection and communication, I was desiroitt
of turning it to good account. Consequently
I gave notice that I wished all that haa dioed
there on last Sunday to attend me yesterdaj
evening, so that I might obtain from them
generally an account of their past and presi^
career. I found them all ready to meet nw,
and I was assured that, by adopting certaia
precautions, I should be in a fair way to pro-
cure information upon the subject of tbe
cheap lodging-houses of London that fsw have
the means of getting. However, so as to ba
able to check the one account with another, I
put myself in communication with a persoa
who had lived for upwards of four months in the
house. Strange to say, he was a man of gooi
education and superior attainments— further
than this I am not at liberty to state. I deal
with the class of houses, and not with any par>
ticular house, be it understood.
^ The lodging-house to which I more p•^
ticularly allude makes up as many as 84
" bunks," or beds, for which fid, per night if
charged. For this stun the parties lodging
there for the night are entitled to the use of
the kitchen for the following day. In this a
fire is kept all day long, at which they are
allowed to cook their food. The kitchen opens
at 5 in the morning, and closes at about 11 st
night, after which hour no fk^sh lodger is
taken in, and all those who slept in the hoDsa
the night before, but who have not sufficient
money to pay for their bed at that time, ars
turned out. Strangers who arrive in the
course of the day must procure a tin ticket,
b^ paying 2rf. at the wicket in the office, pre-
viously to being allowed to enter the kitchen.
The kitchen is about 40 feet long by about 10
wide. The "bunks" are each about 7 feet
long, and 1 foot 10 inches wide, and the grating
on which the straw mi^ttrass is placed is about
12 inches from the ground. The wooden
partitions between the *' bunks** are about 4 feet
high. The coverings are a leather or a rug,
but leathers arc generally preferred. Of these
"bunks" there are five rows, of about H
deep; two rows being placed head to head,
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
815
with a gangwAj between each of such two
rows, aud the other row against the wall.
The average number of persons sleeping in
this house of a night is 60. Of these there
ire generally about 30 pickpockets, 10 street-
beggars, a few infirm old people who subsist
oeeasiozially upon parish relief and occasionally
«poa charity, 10 or 15 dock-labourers, about
the same number of low and precarious callings,
nioh as the neighbourhood affords, and a few
persons who have been in good circumstances,
silt who have been reduced from a variety of
causes. At one time there were as many as 0
persons lodging in this house who subsisted by
piekiug up dogs' dung out of the streets, getting
tbont 5s. for every basketful. The earnings
of one of these men were known to average 95.
per week. There are generally lodging in
the house a few bone-grubbers, who pick up
bones, rags, iron, &c., out of the streets. Their
iverage earnings are about \i. per day. There
ire several mud-larks, or youths who go down
to the water.side when the tide is out, to see
whether any article of value has been left
spoD the bank of the river. The person sup-
pijring this information to me, who was for
Home time resident in the house, has seen
brought home by these persons a drum of figs
•t one time, and a Dutch cheese at another.
These were sold in small lots or slices to the
other lodgers.
The pickpockets generally lodging in the
lioiise consist of handkerchief-stealers, shop-
tillers — including those who rob the till as
wen as steal articles from the doors of shops.
L^ and breasts of mutton are frequently
bimight in by this class of persons. There
IK seldom any housebreakers lodging in such
plsees, because they require a room of their
own, and mostly live with prostitutes. Besides
pickpockets, there are also lodging in the house
speralators in stolen goods. These may be
dock-labourers or Billingsgate porters, having
e few shillings in their pockets. With these
they purchase the booty of the juvenile thieves.
**I have known," says my informant, " these
speculators wait in the kitchen, walking about
vith their hands in their pockets, till a little
fellow would come in with such a thing as a
wp, a piece of bacon, or a piece of mutton.
They would purchase it, and then citlier retail
it amongst the other lodgers in the kitchen or
take it to some * fence,* where they would re-
wive a profit upon if* The general feeling of
the kitchen — excepting with four or five in-
tHviduals — is to encourage theft. The en-
couragement to the " gonatf," ( a Hebrew word
signifying a young thief, probably leomt from
the Jew " fences •• in the neighbourhood) con-
sists in laughing at and applauding his dex-
t»*rity in thieving ; and whenever anything is
Wught in, the "gonoff** is greeted for his
L'ood luck, and a general rush is made towards
«im to see the produce of his thievery. The
*gonaff«** are generally young boys ; about 20
.out ol !)0 of these lads are under 21 years of
age. They almost all of them love idleness,
and will only work for one or two days together,
but then they will work very hard. It is a
singular fact that, as a body, the pickpockets
are generally very sparing of drink. They are
mostly libidinous, indeed universally so, and
spend whatever money they can spare upon the
low prostitutes round about the neighbourhood.
Burglars and smashers generally rank above
this class of thieves. A burglar would not
condescend to sit among pickpockets. My
informant has known a housebreaker to say
with a sneer, when requested to sit down with
the " gonaflfs,*' " No, no ! I may be a thief,
sir ; but, thank God, at least I'm a respectable
one." The beggars who frequent these houses
go about diflerent markets and streets asking
charity of the people that pass by. They
generally go out in couples ; the business of
one of the two being to look out and ^ive
warning when the policeman is approachmg,
and of the other to stand " shallow ; " that is to
say, to stand with very little clothing on,
shivering and shaking, sometimes with band<
ages round his legs, aud sometimes with his
aim in a sling. Others beg " scran" (broken
victuals) of the servants at respectable houses,
and bring it home to the lodging-house, where
they sell it. You may see, I am told, the men
who lodge in the place, and obtain an honest
living, watch for these beggars coming in, as if
they were the best victuals in the City. My
informant knew an instance of a lad who
seemed to be a very fine little fellow, and
promised to have been possessed of excellent
mental capabilities if properly directed, who
came to the lodging-house when out of a
situation as an errand-boy. He stayed there
a month or six weeks, during which time he
was tampered with by the others, and ultimately
became a confirmed " gonaff"." The conversa-
tion among the lodgers relates chiefly to thiev-
ing and the best manner of stealing. By way
of practice, a boy will often pick the pocket of
one of the lodgers walking about the room,
and if detected declare he did not mean it.
The sanitary state of these houses is very
bad. Not only do the lodgers generally swaiin
with vermin, but there is little or no ventila-
tion to the sleeping- rooms, in which GO persons,
of the foulest habits, usually sleep every night.
There are no proper washing utensils, neither
towels nor basins, nor wooden bowls. There
are one or two buckets, but these are not
meant for the use of the lodgers, but for
cleaning the rooms. The lodgers never think
of washing themselves. The cleanliest among
them will do so in the bucket, and then wipe
themselves with their pocket-hondkerchiefis,
or the tails of their shirts.
A large sum to be made by two beggars in
one week is 20*. ; or 10s. a-piece, one for
looking out, and the other for " standing
shallow.*' The average earnings of such
persons are certainly below 8s. per week. If
the Report of the Constabulary Force Com-
310
•LOSDOS LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOIL
misRioners states that 20». per week is the
average sum earned, I am told the state-
ment must have been furnished by parties
who hiid either some object in overrating the
amount, or else who had no means of obtain-
iii'* correct information on the subject. From
all my informant has seen as to the earnings
of those who make a trade of picking pockets
and begging, he is convinced that the amount
is fnr below what is generally believed to be
the case. Indeed, nothing but the idle, roving
life that is connected with the basiness, could
compensate the thieves or beggars for the pri-
vations they frequently undergo.
After obtaining this information, I attended
the lodging-house in pursuance of the notice
I had given, in order to ascertain from the
lodgers themselves what were the callings and
earnings of the different parties there assem-
bled. I found that from 50 to 00 hod mastered
purposely to meet me, although it was early
in the evening, and they all expressed them-
selves ready to furnish me with any informa-
tion I might require. The gentleman who
accompanied me assured me that the answers
they would give to my questionings would be
likely to be correct, from the fact of the
number assembled, as each would check the
other. H&\'ing read to them the account (in
the Morning Chronicle) of my previous in-
terview with them, they were much de-
lighted at finding themselves in print, and
immediately aiTanged themselves on a seat
all round the ro(»m. My first question was
as to the age of those present. Out of 05
assembled, I found that there were ; 1 from GO
to 70 years old, 4 from 50 to CO, 1 from 40 to
60, 15 from SO to 40, 10 from 20 to 80, and 18
from 10 to 20. Hence it will be seen that the
younger memlxirs constituted by far the
greater portion of the assembly. The 18
between 10 and 20 were made up as follows : —
There were 3 of 20 years, 8 of 19 years, 3 of
18 years, 4 of 17 years, 1 of 10 years, and 2 of
15 years. Hence there were more of the age
of 19 than of any other age present.
My next inquiry was as to the place of birth.
1 found that there were 10 belonging to
London, 9 to Ireland, 3 to Bristol, 3 to Liver-
pool, 2 were from Norfolk, 2 from Yorkshire,
2 from Essex, 2 from Germany, and 2 from
North America. The remaining 14 were bom
respectively in Macclesfield, Bolton, Aylesbury,
Seacomb, Deal, Epping, Hull, Nottingham-
shire, riumstead, Huntingdonshire, Plymouth,
Shropshire, Nortliamptonshire, and Windsor.
After this I souglit to obtain information as to
ihe occupations of their parents, with a view of
discovering whether their delinquencies arose
from the depraved character of their early
associations. I found among the number, 13
whose fathers had been labouring men, 5 had
been carpenters, 4 millers and farmers, 2
dyers, 2 cabinet-makers, a tallow-chandler, a
wood-turner, a calico-glazer, a silversmith, a
compositor, a cotton-spinner, a hatter, a grocer,
a whip-maker, a sweep, a glover, a watchmaker,
a madhouse-keeper, a bricklayer, a 8hip>
builder, a cow-keeper, a fishmonger, a mill-
wright, a coast-guard, a ropemaker, a gunsmith,
a collier, an undertaker, a leather-outter, a
clerk, an engineer, a schoolmaster, a capttin
in the army, and a physician.
I now sought to learn from them the trades
that they themselves were brought up to.
There were 17 labourers, 7 mariners, 3 weafen^
2 bricklayers, and 2 shoemakers. The rest
were respectively silversmiths, dyers, black-
smiths, wood-turners, tailors, farriers, caulk-
ers, French polishers, shopmen, brickmaken,
sweeps, ivorj'-tumers, cowboys, stereotype*
founders, fishmongers, tallow-chandlers, rope>
makers, miners, bone-grubbers, engineei%
coal-porters, errand-boys, beggars, and out
called himself " a prig."
I next found that 40 out of the 55 conld
read and write, 4 could read, and only 11 could
do neither.
My next point was to ascertain how loag
they had been out of regular employment, or
to use their own phrase, " had been knocking
about." One had been 10 years idle; one, 9;
three, 8 ; two, 7 ; four. 0 ; five, 5 ; six, 4; uine^
3 ; ten, 2 ; five, 1 ; three, 0 months, and one,
2 months out of employment. A bricklajv
told me he had been eight summers in, sad
eight winters out of work; and a dock-labourer
assured me that he had been 11 years working
at the dock, and that for full three-fourths H
his time he could obtain no employment then.
After this, I questioned them conceminf
their earnings for the past week. One had
gained nothing, another had gained la, eleven
had earned 25. ; eight, 3«. ; nine, 4j.; five, St.;
four, 0«. ; four, 7«.; six, St,; one, lOf.; one^
lU. ; and one, 18«. From three I received ao
answers. The average earnings of the tf
above enumerated are 4j. 1 Id. per week.
Bespecdng their clothing, 14 had no shifti
to their backs, 5 had no shoes, and 42 hid
shoes that scarcely held together.
I now desired to be informed how many out di
the number had been confined in prison ; and
learnt that no less than 34 among the 55 pie*
sent had been in gaol once, or oftener. Eleven
had been in once ; five had been in twice; flfi|in
3 times ; three, 4 times ; four, 0 times; ODe^T
times ; one, 8 times ; one, 0 times ; one, 10
times; one, 14 times; and one confessed to
having been tliero at least 20 times. So thst
the 34 individuals had been imprisoned
altogether 140 times; thus averaging foor
imprisonments to each person. I was snxioiiS
to distinguish between imprisonment ftr
vagrancy and imprisonment for theft Upon
inquiry I discovered that seven had each bees
imprisoned once for vagrancy; one, twice;
one, 3 times ; two, 4 times ; one, 5 times ; tvOi
0 times ; two, 8 times ; and one, 10 times;
making in all 03 imprisonments under tbe
Vagrant Act. Of those who had been confined^
in gaol for theft, thtsre were eleven who bed*
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
317
been id once ; seren, wbo had been in twice ;
two, 3 times; three, 0 times; one, 8 times,
and two, 10 times ; making a total of 77 impri-
sonments fbr thieving. Hence, ont of 140
incarcerations, 63 of those had been for
Tigrancy, and 77 for theft; and this was
among 34 individuals in an assemblage of .'^5.
The qnestion that I pat to them after this
▼as, how long they had been engaged in
thieving? and the following were the answers :
ooe had been 15 years at it; one, 14 years;
two, 13 years ; three, 10 years ; one, 9 years ;
oae, 8 yean ; two, 7 years ; one, 6 years ; two,
5 yean ; three, 4 years; and one, 3 years ; one,
18 months; one, 7 months; two, 6 months;
and one, 2 months. Consequently, there were,
of the half-hundred and odd individuals there
assembled, thieves of the oldest standing and
the most recent beginning.
Their greatest gains by theft, in a single day,
were thns classified. The most that one hod
I gained was Srf., the greatest sum another had
I gained was Id.; another, ) s. (Sd,\ another, 2s. 6(/.;
another, 6t. ; five had made from IO5. to 15s.;
three irom 1/. to 2/. ; one from 2/. to 3/. ; six
finm 8/. to 4/. ; one from 4/. to 5/. ; two from
2W. to 80/. ; and two from 30/. to 40/. Of the
latter two sums, one was stolen from the
(iather of the thief, and the other from the till
of a counter when the shop was left unoccupied,
the boy vaulting over the counter and abstract-
ing from the tiU no less than seven 5/. notes,
all of which were immediately disposed of to a
Jew in tho immediate neighbourhood for 3/.
l(k each.
The greatest earnings by begging hod been
7i. W., 10s. Orf., and 1/.; but the average
amount of earnings was apparently of so pre-
carious a nature, that it was difiicult to get the
men to state a definite sum. From their con-
dition, however, as well as their mode of living
whilst I remained among them, I can safely
nay begging did not seem to be a very lucrative
or attractive calling, and tlio lodgers were cer-
tainly under no restraint in my presence.
I wanted to learn fi-om them what had been
their motive for stealing in the first instance,
and I foond upon questioning them, that ten
did so on running away from home ; five con-
fessed to have done so ft-om keeping flash
company, and wanting money to defray their
expenses ; six had first stolen to go to theatres ;
nine, because they had been imprisoned for
vagrants, and foimd that the thief was bettor
treated than they ; one because ho had got no
t<jols to work with ; one because he was "hard
np ;■• one because he could not get work ; and
one more because he was put in prison for
bogging.
The following is the list of articles that they
first stole : six rabbits, silk shawl from home,
a pair of shoes, a Dutch cheese, a few shillings
from home, a coat and trousers, a bullock's
iieart, four " tiles " of copper, fifteen and six-
pence from master, two handkerchiefs, half a
qnartem loaf, a set of tools worth 3/., clothes
from a warehouse, worth 22/., a Cheshire
cheese, a pair of carriage lamps, some hand-
kerchiefs, five shillings, some turnips, watch-
chain and seals, a sheep, three and sixpence,
and an invalid's chair. This latter article, the
boy assured me he had taken about the country
with him, and amused himself by riding down
hill.
Their places of amusement consisted, they
told me, of the following: The Britannia
Saloon, the City Theatre, the Albert Saloon,
the Standard Saloon, the Surrey and Victoria
Theatres when they could afford it, the Penny
Negroes, and tlie Earl of Eflingham con-
certs.
Four frequenters of that room had been
transported, and yet tho house had been open
only as many years, and of the as30ciat«*s and
companions of thdlsc present, no less than 40
had left the country in the same maimer.
The names of some of these were curious. I
subjoin a few of them. The Ban<?or, The
Slasher, The Spider, Flush Jim, White-coat
Mushe, Lankey Thompson, Tom Sales [he
was hung], and Jack Sheppard.
Of the tiHy-five congregrated, two had signed
the temperance pledge, and kept it. The rest
confessed to getting drunk occasionally, but
not making a practice of it. Injjeed, it is
generally allowed that, as a class, tho young
pickpockets are rather temperate than other-
wise ; so that here, at least, we cannot assert
that drink is the cause of the crime. Nor can
their various propensities be ascribed to
ignormice, for we havo seen that out of 55
individuals 40 could read and write, while 4
could read. It shotdd be remembered, at the
same time, tliat out of the 55 men oidy .'U were
thieves. Neither cun the depravity of their
early associations be named as the cause of
their delinqueneies, for we have seen that, as
a class, their fathers are men rather well to do
in tho world. Indeed their errors seem to
have rather a physical than either an intellec-
tual or a moral cause. They seem to be
naturally of an erratic and self-willed tempera-
ment, objecting to the restraints of home, and
incapable of continuous application to any one
occupation whatsoever. They arc essentially
the idle and the vagabond; and they seem
generally to attribute tho commencement of
their career to harsh government at home.
According to the lleport of the ConsUbulary
Force Commissioners, there were in Uie metio-
polis in 1H39, '-J'il of such houses as the one at
present described, and each of tht-se houses
horboured daily, upon an average, no loss than
eleven of such characters as tlie furogoinp,
making in all a total of 24^1 vagiwits and
pickpockets sheltered by the proprietors of the
low lodging-houses of London. The above
twopenny lodging-house has, on an average,
from fifty to sixty persons sleepinj? in it nightly,
yielding an income of nearly 3/. per week.
The throe-penny lodging-houses in the same
neighbourhood average from fifteen to twenty
818
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
persons per night, nnd produce a weekly total
of from JiO*. lo 25f. profit, the rent of the
liouses at the saiue time being only from &«• to
0*. per week.
There is still one question worthy of con-
sideration. Does the uncertainty of dock
labour generate thieves and vagabonds, or do
the thieves and vagabonds crowd round the
docks so as to be able to gain a day's work
when unable to thieve ? According to returns
of the metropolitan police force, the value of
the property stolen in this district in the year
1848 was 2007/., of which only 365/. were
recovered. The number of robberies was 621,
the average amount of each robbery being
S/. 1 75. 0\d, The amount recovered averaged
i4s. on each robbozy.
ON THE TRANSIT OF GREAT BRITAIN
AND THE METROPOLIS.
As the entire transit system of Great Britain,
with all its railroads, turnpike-roads, canals,
and navigable rivers, converges on London, I
propose to make it the subject of the present
section, by way of introduction to my inquiry
into the condition of the metropolitan labourers
connectedF therewith.
^* There is a very great amount of labour
employed," says Mr. Stewart Mill, ** not only
in bringing a product into exbtence, but in
rendering it, when in existence, accessible to
those for whose use it is intended. Many
important classes of labourers find their sole
employment in some functions of this kind.
There is the whole class of carriers by land
and water — waggoners, bargemen, sailors,
wharfmen, porters, railway oflicials, and the
like. Good roads/' continues the same emi-
nent authority, " arc equivalent to good tools,
and railways and canals are virtually a dimi-
nution of the cost of production of ail things
sent to market by them.'*
^ In order to give tlie public as comprehen-
sive an idea of this subject as possible, and to
show its vostness and importance to the com-
munity, I shall, before entering upon the
details of that part of it which more imme-
diately concerns mo ; \iz. tlie transit from and
to the dilTcrunt parts of the metropolis, and
the condition and earnings of the people con-
nected therewith — I shall, I say, furnish an
account of the extent of the external and in-
ternal transit of this country generally. Of
the provisions for the internal transit I shall
speak in due course — first speaking of the
grand medium for carrying on the trafiic of
Great Britain with the world, and showing
how, within the capital of an island which is
a mere speck on the map of the earth, is
centered and originated, planned and exe-
cuted, so vast a portion of the trade of all
nations. I shall confine my obsenations to
the latest returns and tlie latest results.
The MEBCAimLE BIabikb.
The number of vessels belonging to the
United Kingdom was, in 1848, nearly 35,000,
haring an aggregate burden of upwards of
3000 tons, and being manned by 180,000
hands. To give the reader, however, a move
vivid idea of the magnitude of the *' znereantile
marine " of this kingdom, it may he aaiely as-
serted, that in order to accommodate the vhoU
of our merchant vessels, a dock of 15,000 square
acres would be necessary ; or, in other woiUi,
there would be required to float them an extent
of water sufficient to cover four times the azei
of the city of London, while the whole popo^
lation of Birmingham would be needed to
man them. But, besides the 20,000 and odd
British, with their l&O.OOO men, that are thm
engaged in conveying tlie treasures of oth«
lands to our own, tliero are upwards of 13,000
foreign vessels, manned by 100,000 haedii
that annually visit the shores of this countxy.
Of the steam- vessels belonging to tbfl
United Kingdom in 1848, there were llOQi
Their aggregate length was 125,283 feet; thdr
aggregate breadth, 19,748 feet; their aggre-
gate tonnage, 255,371 ; and their aggregate
of horsepower, 92,862. It may be added,
that they are collectively of such dimensiosi,
that by placing them stem to stem, one after
the other, they would reach to a distance of
23^ miles, or form one continaoiifl line from
Dover- to Calais; while, by placing thera
abreast, or alongside each other, th^ would
occupy a space of 3^ miles wide.
According to the calculations of Mr. G.F.
Young, the eminent shipbuilder, the entire
value of the vessels belonging to ^ the mer*
cantile marine of the British empire is op<
ward of 38,000,000/. sterling. The annual cost
of the provisions and wages of the seamen
employed in navigating them, 0,500,000/. The
sum annually expended in the bulding and
outfitting of new ships, as well as the re-
pairing of the old ones, is 10,500,000/., while
the amount annually received for freight ii
28,500/.
The value of the merchandise thus im-
ported or exported has still to be set forth
By this we learn not only the vast extent of
the international trade of Great Britain, but
the immense amount of property entrusted
annually to the merchant-seaman. It would,
perhaps, hardly be credited, that the value of
the articles which our mercantile marine ii
engaged in ti*ansporting to and from the
shores of this kingdom, amounts to upwards
of one hundred million pounds sterling.
Such, then, is tlie extent of the extenul
transit of tliis countxy. There is scarcely a
comer of the earth that is not visited by our
vessels, and the special gifts and benefits con-
forred upon the most distant countries thus
diffused and shared among even the humblest
members of our own. To show the connezkai
LUI^JJON LABOUR AND THE LONDON I'OOJJU
UlJ
the metropoUs irith this vast amount of
ule, involviog so many industrial interests,
shall conclude with stating, that the
tarns proYO that one>fourth of the entire
iritime commerce of this countiy is carried
at the port of London.
As a wd contrast, however, to all this
lendonr, I may here add, that the annual
w of property in British shipping wrecked
foonderod at sea may bo assumed as
lonntiiig to nearly three million pounds
ffting per annum. The annual loss of Hfe
eaaionied by the wreck or foundering of
itiah Tessels may be fairly estimated at not
IS than one thousand souls in each year;
that it would appear, that the annual loss
shipwreck amongst the vessels belonging
the United Kingdom is, on an average,
ihip in every 42; and the annual loss of
operty engaged therein 1/. in every 42/.;
lue the average number of sailors drowned
Hmnts to 1 in eveiy 203 persons engaged
navigation.
I now come to speak of the means by
nch the vast nmonnt of wealth thus brought
cor shores is distributed throughout the
ontxy. I have already said that there are
ree different modes of internal communi-
tion : — 1, to convey the several articles coast-
nefrora one port to another ; 2, to carry them
land from town to town ; and 3, to remove
em ftt>m and to the different parts of the
me town. I shall deal first with the com-
mdcadon along the coast
In 1840, the coasting vessels employed in
e intercourse between Great Britain and
dand made upwards of 2Q,000 voyages, and
e gross burden of the vessels thus engaged
iMmnted to more than 3,500,000 tons. The
coasters'* engaged in the carrying trade
rtween the different ports of Great Britain
1849, mado no less than 255,000 voyages,
kd possessed collectively a capacity for car-
ina upwards of 20,000,000 tons of goods.
f tiie steam-vessels employed coastwise in
le United Kingdom, the number that en-
red inwards, including their repeated voyages,
18 17,800, having an aggregate burden of up-
ttds of 4,000,000 tons, while 14,500 and odd
eam-vessels, of not quite the same amount
^ tonnage, were cleared outwards. This ex-
resses the entire amount of the coasting
ade in connexion with the several ports
^ Great Britain. London, as I have before
lown, has four times the number of sailing
^ssels, and ten times the amount of tonnage,
•er and above any port in the kingdom,
bilst of steam-impelled coasting vessels it
IS but little more than one-third, compared
rth Liverpool.
TURNFIEE-IIOAOS AND StAOE-CoACHES.
HE next branch of my subject that pre.
)ntB itself in due order is the means by
hich the goods thus brought to the several
ports of the kingdom ore carried to the in-
terior of the country. There are two means
of effecting this; that is to say, either by
land or water-carriage. Land-carriage con-
sists of transit by rail and transit by turnpike
roads ; the water-carriage of transit by canals
and na>'igabl6 rivers, I shall begin widi the
first-mentioned of these, viz. turnpike-roads,
and then proceed in due order to the others.
The turnpike-roads of England present a
perfect network of communication, connecting
town witli town, and hamlet with hamlet. It
was only within the present century, however,
that these important means of increasing
commerce and civilization were constructed
according to scientific data. Before that,
portions of what were known as the great
coaching roads were repaired with more than
usual care : but until Mr. M'Adam's system
was generally adopted, about forty years
back, all were more or less defective. It
would be wearisome were I to add to the
number of familiar instances of the diffi-
culdes and dilatoriness of travelling in the
old days, and to tell how the ancient ** heavy
coaches " were merged in the " fast light
coaches,** which, in their turn, yielded to the
greater speed of the railways.
In 1818, according to the Government Re-
port on the tiunpikc-roads and the railways
of England and Wales, there existed—
HUef.
In England and Wales, paved streets
and turnpike-roads to the extent of 1 0,725
Other pubHc highways • • • 05,104
Total
• 114,820
Other parliamentary returns show, that in 1829
the length of only the turnpike-roads in Eng-
land and Wales was 20,875 miles, or upwards
of 1000 miles more than they (together with
the paved streets) extended to 10 years before.
In 1830, the length of the turnpike-roads and
paved streets throughout England and Wales
amounted to 22,534 miles, whilo all other
highways were 0Q,903 miles long; making in
sdl, 110,527 miles of road. By this it appears,
that in the course of 20 years upwards of
4500 miles of highway had been added to the
resources of the country. As these are the
latest returns on the subject, and it is probable
that, owing to the estaUishment of railways,
there has been no great addition since that
period to the aggregate extent of mileage
above given, it may be as well to set forth
the manner in which these facilities for inter-
communication were distributed among the
different parts of the country at that time.
The counties containing the greatest length of
turnpike-road, according to their size, were
Derby, Worcester, Flint, Gloucester, Somerset,
Monmouth, Stafford, Hereford, Southampton,
&c., which severally contained one mile of
turnpike-road to about each thousand statute
•erea, the average for the entire country being
a^
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
nearly double tliat amount of acres to each
mile of roml. Those counties, on the other
hand, which contained the shortest length of
turnpike- roiuls in relation to their size, were
Anglesey (in which tliere were only five miles
of rood to 173,000 statute acres, being in the
proportion of one mile to 34,088 acres) ; then
Westmort'lnnd, Suffolk, Essex, Norfolk, Pem-
broke, and Cumberland. The counties con-
taining the greatest length of paved streets at
tlie above period were, lirst, Middlesex, where
tlicre was one mile of street to every 774
acres ; second, Suflblk; third, LoncaNter; fourth,
Warwick; fiftli, Surrey; and sixth, Chester.
The average number of acres to each mile of
paved strci>t was 12,734, and in the districts
above specified the number of acres to the
mile ranged from 3000 to 0000. Those coun-
ties, on the contrary, wliich contained the
shortest length of streets, were Kadnor and
An^'lesey, in which tlioro were no paved streets
whatever; Brecon, wliich has only one mile, and
Carnarvon which has only two ; whereas Middle-
sex, the county of Uie capital, has as many as
233 miles of streets extending throtigh it The
cost of the repairs of the roads and streets in
the different counties is equally curious. In
Merioneth, tlie rate of the expenditure is
12j.ll|4f.permilc; in Montgomery, l/.14f.2i(/. ;
in Radnor, 1/. 1B«. Irf. ; in Brecon, 2/. 0«. (!\d.\
in Carnarvon, 2/. 10«. 1}<^ ; in Anglesey, d/. 8«, ;
in Cardigan, 3/. 3«. 0\d,\ whereas in Middlesex
the cost amounts to no loss than 87/. 1<. C^J.
per mile; in Lancosljire, the next most ex-
pensive county, it is 32/. 2«. 6</. ; in the West
lUding of Yorksliii-e it comes to 23/. 4^. 3</. ;
and in Surrey ,«thc ether metropolitan county,
to 10/. Is. \\<l.\ the average for the whole
cmintry being 10/. 12«. \\d. per mile, or,
1,267,84H/. for the maintenance of 110,027
miles of public highways throughout England
and Wales.
These roads were used for a threefold pur-
pose,— the conveyance of passengers, letters,
and goods. The passengers, letters, and parcels,
were conveyed chiefly by the moil and stage-
coaches, the goods by waggons and vans. Of
the number of passengers who travelled by the
mail and stoge-coaclies no return was ever made.
I am indebted, however, to Mr. Porter, for the
following calculation as to the number of stage-
coach travellers before their vehicles (to adopt
their own mode of expression) were run off
the roads by the steam-engine :—
. " In order to obUiin some approximation to
[ the extent of travelling by means of stage-
coaches ill England, a carefhl calculation has
been made upon the whole of the returns to
! tlie Stamp Office, and the licenses for which
coaches were in operation at the end of the year
1834. The method followed in making the
application has been to ascertain the perform-
ance of each vehicle, supposing that perform-
ance to have been equal to the full amount
of the permission conveyed by the license,
reducing the power bo given to a number
equal to the number of miles which one
passenger might be conveyed in the course of
the year. For example: a coach is licensed
to convey 15 imssengers daily from London
to Birmingham, a distance of 113 m:fles. In
order to ascertain the possible performance of
this carriage during the year, if the number
of miles is multiplied by Uie number of jour-
neys, and that product multiplied again hf
the number of passengers, wo shall obtain, as
an element, a number equal to the number of
miles along which one person might have bean
conveyed ; riz. 112 x 805 x 15 — > 018,200.
In this case the number of miles travelled is
40,880, along which distance 15 persons might
have been carried during the year: but for the
simplification of the cidculation, the further
calculation is made, which shows that amount
of travelling to be equal to the conveyanoe of
one person through the distance of 013,900
miles. Upon making this calculation fbr the
whole number of stage-coaches that possessed
licenses at tlie end of the year 1884, it appeut
that the means of conveyance thus provided
for travelling were equivalent to the convey-
ance during the year of one person for the
distance of 507,150,420 miles, or more then
six times between the earth and the son.
Observation has shown, that tlie degree in
which the public avail themselves of tlie
accommodation thus provided is in the pn>>
portion of 0 to 15, or tluee-fiflha of its utmost
extent Following this proportion, the sum
of all the travelling by stage-ooaohea in Greet
Britain may be represented by 885,205,052
miles. We shall probably go the utmost
extent in assuming that not more than two
millions of persona travel in that manner. It
affords a good measure of the relstivo im-
portance of the metropolis to the remainder
of tlio country, that of the above number of
507,150,420, the large proportion of 400,052,041
is the product of stage-ooachos which tie
licensed to nin fW>m L(mdon to various peiti
of tlie kingdom."
In this calculation the stage-coach travelling
of Ireland is not indnded, nor is that of
Scotland, when confined to that kingdom;
but when part of the communication is with ,
England it is included. Of course, only .
public conveyances are spoken of: all tbe
travelling in private carriages, or post-chaise^
or hired gigs, is additionaL .
The number of stage-eoachmcn and gnsrdi '
in 1830 were 2010; in 1840, 2507; in 1841,
2230; in 1842, 2107; in 1848, 140.
The expenditure on account of these roads
in 1841 amounted to 1,551,000/.; thereveooe i
derived firom them for the same year baring
been 1,574,000/.
A great change has been induced in the
character of the tompike-roada of England.
The liveliness imparted to many of the lin« |
of road by the scarlet coots of the drivers and
guards, and ^7 the sound of the guard's boglA
as it announced to aU the idlen of the coontiy I
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
821
pltee that ** the London eoach was coming in,"
these things ezist no longer. Now, on very
fevportiGns of the 1448 miles of the tumpike-
mkd in Yorkshire, or the 840 of Gloucester-
shire, is a stage-ooach-and-foiir to be seen :
and the great coaching inns by the wayside,
lith the trihes of osUers and helpers " chnnging
hones** with a &cility almost marvelloiLs, Imve
beeome fi&rmhotiBes or mere wayside taverns.
Hie greatest rate of speed attained by any
of the mail-ooaches was eleven miles an lionr,
indading stoppages; that is, eleven miles not-
vithatanding the delay incurred in changing
bones, which was the work of from one minute
to three, depending upon whether any pas-
soiger was "taken up" or set down at that
FtJige (the word '* station" is peculiar to rail-
ways). If there was merely a change of horses,
aboot a minute was consumed. The horses
were not vnf^uently imsucccssful racehorses,
and they were generally of " good blood." Some
▼onld run daily on the same stages 8 and 10
yean. About 10| miles was an average rate
for the mail, and Bf to 0 miles for the stagc-
oosches. They often advertised 10 miles an
hoar, but Uiat was only an advertisement.
So rapid, so systematic, and so commended
was the s^e of stage-coach travelling, that
some of the great coach proprietors dreaded
little fnsm the competitive results of railway
trsvening. One of these proprietors on '^ Uie
Great North Eoad" used to say, "Boilways are
jost a bounce — all speculation. People will
find it out in time, and there'll be more coach-
ing than ever; railways can never answer!"
So punctual, too, were these carriages, that
one gentleman used to say he set his watch
by the Glasgow mail, as " she passed his door
I7 the roadside, at three minutes to ten."
Nor is it only in tho discontinuance of
ttage-coaches that the roads of the kingdom
hare experienced a change in character. Until
the prevalence of railways, "posting" was
common. A wealthy person travelled to
London in his own carriage, which was drawn
by four horses, almost as quickly as by the
mail. The horses were changed at the several
stages; the ostler's cry of "first turn out,"
stonmoning the stablemen and tho postihons
with a readiness second only to that in the
case of the passengers' coaches. The horses,
however, were ridden by postilions in red or
light blue jackets, with white buttons, light-
eolonrcd breeches, and brown top-boots, instead
of being driven four-in-hand. This was the
Total length of railway open on June 80, 1849, and persons employed
thereon
Xotal length of railway in course of construction on June 30, 1849,
and persons employed thereon
^otal length of railway neitlier open nor in course of construction
on Jimo 30, 1849
Xotal length of railway authorised to be used for tlie conveyance of
passengers on June 80, 1849, and the total number of persons
employeA thereon • •
aristocratic style of .travelling, and its indul
gence was costly. For a pair of good horses
ts. Qd, a-mile was an average charge, and 8<f.
a-mile had to bo given in the compulsory
gratuities of those days to the postilion ; 8«.
a-mile was tho charge for four horses, but
sometimes rather less. Thus, supposing that
500 noblemen and gentlemen "posted" to
London on the opening of Parliament, each, as
was common, with two corriages-and-four, and
each posting liOO miles, tho aggregate expen-
diture, without any sum for meals or for beds
— and to "sleep on the road" was common
when ladies were travelling — would be 35,000/.,
and to this add five per cent for tlie turnpike-
tolls, and the whole cost would be 30,750/. ; an
average of 73/. IO5. for each nobleman and
gentleman, with his family and the customary
members of his household. The calculation
refers merely to a portion of tho members of
the two houses of legislature, and is un-
questionably within the mark; for though
many travelled shorter distances and by
cheaper modes, many travelled 400 miles, and
with more carriages than three. No " lady *'
condescended to enter a stage-coach at the
period concerning which I write. As tho
same expense was incurred in returning to tho
castle, hall, park, abbey, wood, or manor, tho
annual outlay for this one piupose of merely
a fraction of the posters to London was 73,500/.
It might not be extravagant to assert, that
more than five times this outlay was annually
incurred, including "pairs" and "fours," or a
total of 367,500/. This mode of travelling I
believe is now almost wholly extinct, if indeed
it be not impossible, since there are no horses
now kept on the road for the purpose. I have
been infonnetl that the late Duke of Northum-
berland was the last, or one of the last^ who, in
dislike or dread of railways, regularly " posted"
to and from Alnwick Castle to London.
TuE Railways.
The next branch of the transit by land
appertains to tho conveyance of persons and
goods per rail. The railways of the United
Kingdom open, in course of construction, or
authorised to be constructed, extend over
upwards of 12,000 miles, or four times tlie
distance across the Atlantic. The following is
the latest return on the subject, in a Ileport
printed by order of the House of Commons,
the 22nd of March last :—
Persons
etnplojed.
55,0«8
Miles.
Chaint.
5447
lOf
1504
2on
5132
38ij
12,088
70
100,840
159,784
Xo. LXXllI.
822
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
There are now upwards of 6000 miles of
railroad open for traffic in the three king-
doms, fAQ miles having been opened in the
course of the half-year following the da^ of
the above return. At that date 111 miles of
raih^ad were open for traffic, irrespective of
their several branches. 200 railways, including
branches, were authorised to be constructed,
but had not been commenced.
The growth of i-oilways was slow, and not
gradual. They were unknown as modes of
public conveyance before the present century,
but roads on a similar principle, irrespective
of steam, were in use in the Northumberland
and Durham collieries, somewhere about the
year 1700. The rails were not made of iron
but of wood, and, with a facility previously
unknown, a small cart, or a series of small carts,
was dragged along them by a pony or a horse,
to any given ]>oint where the coid had to be
deposited. In the lead mines of the North
Riding of Yorkshire the same system was
adopted, the more rapidly and with the less
fatigue, to convey the ore to the mouth of the
mine. Some of these '^tramways,** as they are
called, were and are a mile and more in length ;
and visitors who penetrate into the very bowels
of tlic mine are conveyed along those tramways
in carts, drawn generally by a pony, and driven
by a boy (who has to duck his head every hero
and t.hcro to avoid collision) into the galleries
and open spaces where the miners are at work.
In tho year 1601, the first Act of Parliament
authorising the construction of a railway was
passed. This was tho Surrey, between Wands-
worth and Croydon, nine mUes in length, and
constructed at a cost, in round numbers, of
60,000/. In the following twenty years, sixteen
such Acts were passed, authorising the con-
struction of 124| miles of railway, the cost of
which was 971,282/., or upwards of 7500/.
a -mile. \n 1822 no such Act was passed. In
1823, Parliament authorised the construc-
tion of the Stockton and Darlington; and
on that short railway, originated and completed
in a great measure through the exertions of
the wealthy Quakers of the neighbourhood,
and opened on the 27th of December, 1825,
steam-power was Arbt used as a means
of propulsion and locomotion on a railway.
It was some little time before this that grave
senators and learned journalists laughed to
scorn Mr. Stephenson's assertion, that steam
" could be made to do twenty miles an hour
on a railway.** In the following ten years,
thirty railway bills were passed by the legis-
lature; and among these, in 1826, was the
Liverpool and Manchester, which was opened
on the 1 6th September, 1830 — an opening ren-
dered as lamentable as it is memorable by the
death of Mr. Huskisson. In 1834, seven rail-
way bills were passed ; ten in 1835 ; twenty-
six in 1836 ; eleven in 1887 ; one in 1838 ;
three in 1839 ; none again till 1843, and then
onW one — the Northampton and Peterborough,
which extends along 44^ miles, and which cost
Birmingham and Gloucester
Bristol and Gloucester
Bristol and Exeter .
Eastern Counties
Great Western ....
Great North of England .
Grand Junction
Glasgow, Paisley, and Groeuock
London and Birmingham .
London and South-Westem
Manchester and Leeds
Midland Counties
North Midland ....
Northern and Eastern
Sheffield, Ashton, and Manchester
South-Eastem ....
. £22,618
. 25/i8»
. 18,A»
. 30,171
. 89,107
22,757
28,481
72,868
41^
49»l6e
28,776
41,846
74,166
81,478
429,409/. The mass of the other ndlwmye have
been constructed, or authorised, and the Acts !
of Parliament authorising their constractiott
shelved, since the close of 1843. I find no
official returns of the dates of the several j
enactments.
The following statement, in avenges of four '
years, shows the amount of the sums which
Parliament authorised the various compames
to raise fh)m 1822 to 1845. Upwarda of one-
half of the amount of the aggregate sum
expended in 1822-6 was spent on the
Manchester and Liverpool Baflwaj, l,832,87aJL
The cost of the Stockton and DarHngtoo,
(450,000/.), is ah}0 included :
From 1822 to 1825 indnslYe ^6451^5
„ 1826 „ 1829 „ 816,846
„ 1830 „ 1833 „ a,l57,186
„ 1834 „ 1837 „ 10,880,431
„ 1838 „ 1841 „ 3,614,428
„ 1842 „ 1845 „ 30,895,128
Of these yeari^ 1845 presents the eim iHien
the rage for railway speculation was most
strongly manifested, as in that year the legis-
lature sanctioned the raising, by new ndlwty
companies, of no less than 59,018,686/. mors
than the imperial taxes levied in the United
Kingdom, while in 1844 the amount so sadc-
tioned was 14,793,994/. The total tmn to be
raised for railway purposes for the last twen^
years of the above dates was 158,455,b37/.,
with a yearly average of 7,672,792/. For tlic
four years preceding the vearly average was
but 112,866/.
The parliamentary expenses attending the
incorporation of sixteen of the principal rulwaj
companies were 683,498/., or an average per rail-
way of 42,718/. It will be seen from the following
table, that the greatest amount thus expended
was on the incorporation of the Great Westers.
On that undertaking an outlay not much short
of 90,000/. was incurred, before a foot of sod
could be raised by the spade of the "navvy."
It must be borne in mind that these lai!p
sums were all for parliamentazy ezpensis
alone, and were merely the disbursements of
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
323
tbe railway proprietors, whose applications to
Parliament were successfuL Probably as large
an amount was eiqpended in opposition to tlie
sereral bills, and in the fruitless advocacy of
livid oompaniea. Thus above a million and
quarter of pounds sterling was spent as a pre-
Uminaiy ooilaj.
Of the railway lines, the construction of the
Great Western, 117^ miles in length, was the
moat coatly, entailing an expenditure of nearly
eight milliona ; the Xx>ndon and Birmiugham,
112^ miles, cost 0,073,114/.; the South-
Eistem, 66 miles, 4,306,478/. ; the Maiiches-
ter and Leeds, 53 miles, 3,872,240/.; the
Eastern Counties, 51 miles, 2,821,790/.; the
Glasgow, Paisley, Kilmarnock, and Ayr, 57|
miles, 1,071,263/. ; an amount which was ex-
ceeded by the outlay on only the 3^ miles of
the London and BlaokwaU, first opened, which
east 1,078,851/. I ought to mention, that the
lengths in miles are t^ose of the portions first
opened to the public in the respective lines, and
first authorised by parliamentary enactments.
" Junctions," *' continuations," and the blend-
ing of companies, have been subsequent mea-
Burea, entering, oi course, proportionate outlay.
The length of line of the Great Western, for
instance, with its immediate branches, opened
on the 30th of June, 1849, wi\s 225 miles ;
that of the South - Eastern, 144 miles ; and
that of the Eastern Counties, 309 miles. It
is stated in Mr. Knight's *' British Almanac "
for the current year, that the " London and
North -Western is ahnost the only company
which has maintained in 1849 the same din-
dend even as in the preceding year, viz. seven
per cent The Great Western, the Midland,
the Lancashu-e and Yorkshire, the York and
Newcastle, the York and North Midland, the
Eastern Counties, the South - Eastern, the
South- Wt stem, Brighton, the ^lanchoster and
Lincolnshire, all have suffered a decided dimi-
nution of dividend. These ton great com-
panies, whose works up to the present timo
have cost over one hundred millions sterling,
have on an average declared for the half year
ending in the simimcr of 1810, a dividend on
the regular non-guaranteed shares of between
three and four per cent per annum. The
remaining companies, about sixty in number,
can har(Uy have reached an average of two
per cent per annum in the same half year."
The fbUowing Table gives the latest returns
of rsdlway traffic from 1845. Previous to that
date no such returns were published in parlia*
mentary papers :—
COMPARATIVE STATEMENT OF THE TRAFFIC ON ALL THE RAILWAYS IN
THE UNITED KINGDOM FOR THE FIVE YEARS ENDING JUNE 30, 1845,
1646, 1847, 1848, 1849, TOGETHER WITH THE LENGTH OF RAILWAY OPEN
ON DECEMBER 31 AND JUNE 30 IN EACH YEAR.
Length
open on
June 30
in each
year.
Total
Number of
Total Receipts ftom
Passengers.
Receipts from Goods,
Cattle, Parcels,
MaiK &c.
Total Receipts.
T«ar«nding
Jane 30, 1845
» 1840
„ 1847
n 1848
„ 1849
HUee.
2343
2705
3603
4478
5447
33,791,253
43,790,983
51,352,103
57,905,070
00,398,159
£ ». d.
3,970,341 0 0
4,725,215 11 8^
5,148,002 5 oi
5,720,382 9 If
0,105,975 7 7i
2,233,373 0 0
2,840,353 10 ^
3,302,883 19 0^
4,213,109 14 5J
5,094,025 18 11
£ i. d,
0.209,714 0 0
7,505,509 8 2|
1,510,880 4 7i
9,933,552 3 7^
11,200,901 0 Oi
This official table shows a conveyauce for
the year ending June, 1849, of 00,398,159
passengers. It may be as well to men-
tion that every distinct trip is reckoned.
Thns a gentleman travelling from and re-
toming to Greenwich daily, fig^es in the re-
turn as 730 passengers. Of the number of
individuals who travel in the United Kingdom
I have no information. Thousands of the
labouring classes travel very rarely, perhaps
not more than once on some holiday trip in the
course of a twelvemonth. But assuming ever}'
one to travel, and the population to be thirty
millions, then we have two railway trips mado
by every man, woman, and child in the king-
dom every year.
• There are no data from which to deduce a
preciselj aeoimte calculation of the number
of miles travelled by the 00,398,159 passengers
who availed themselves of railway facihties in
the year cited. Official Usts show that seventy-
eight railways comprise the extent of mileage
given, but these railways vary in extent. The
shortest of them open for the conveyance of
passengers is the Belfast and County Down,
which is only 4 miles 35 chains in length, and
the number of passengei*8 travelling on it
81,441. The Midland and the London and
North-Westem, on the other hand, are respect-
ively 405 and 477 miles in length, and their
complement of passengers is respectively
2,252,984 and 2,750,541i. The average length
of the 78 railways is 70 miles, but as the stream
of travel flows more from intermediate station
to station along the course of the line, than
from one extremity to the other, it may be
824
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOS.
reasonable to eompute -that each indiridual
]>assengorhas travelled oue-fbctrth of the entire
ilistance, or 17 J miles — n calculation confirmed
l>y the amount paid by each individual, which
is sr»m»^thing abort of 2*., or rather more than
l^d. per mile.
Thus we may conclude that each passenger
has journeyed 17^ miles, and that the grand
aggregate of travel by all the railway passen.
gors of the kingdom will be 1,05*^,827,032^
miles, or nearly eleven times the distance
between the earUi and the sun eveiy year.
The Government returns present some
rurious results. The passengers by the second-
class carriages have been more numerous
every year than those by any other class, and
for the year last returned were more than
three times the number of those who indulged
in the comforts of first-class vehicles. Not-
>Yithstanding nearly 1000 now miles of railway
were opened for the public transit and traffic
between June 1848-0, still the number of first-
class passengers decreased no fewer than
112,000 and odd, while those who resorted to
the humbler accommodation of the second
class increased upwards of 170,000. The
numerical mryority of the second-class pas-
sengers over the first was :—
Year ending Juno, 184ft . . 8,851,602
„ „ 1810 .. 10,770,712
1H47 .. 12,120,574
1848 .. 14,490,730
„ 1849 .. 10,313,700
Theso figures aflbrd some critei-ion as to the
class or character of the travelling millions
who are the supporters of the railways.
The official table presents another curious
characteristic. The originators of railways,
prior to the era of the opening of the Man-
<^hester and Liverpool, dex)ended for their
dividends far more upon the profits they might
receive in the cai)aoity of common carriers,
upon the conveyance of manufactured goods,
minerals, or merchandise, than upon the transit
of passengers. It was the property in canals
and in liea\'y carnage that would be depreci-
ated, it was believed, rather than that in the
stage-coaches. Even on the Manchester and
Iiveri)ool, the projectors did not expect to
realise more than 20,000/. a-yeor by the con-
veyance of passengers. The result shows tlie
fallacy of tliese computations, as the receipts
for passengers for the year ending June, 1849,
exceeded the receipts" from "cattle, goods,
parcels, and moils," by 1 ,011,050/. In districts,
however, wliich are at once agricultural and
mineral, the amount realised from passengers
falls short of that derived from other sources.
Two instances will suffice to show this : The
Stockton and Darlington is in immediate con-
nexion with the district where the famous
sliort-hom cattle were first bred by Mr.
Collins, and where they ore still bred in high
perfection by eminent agriciilturists. It is in
eonnexioD, moveover, with tlie eoal and lead-
mining distriets of Sooth Dniliam and North
Yorkshire, the prodoce being conTeyed to
Stockton to be alupped. For the last year, the
receipts fSrom pasBengers were 80001. and odd,
while for the eonveyance of cattle, coal, &e.,
no less than 02,000/. was paid. From thdr
passengers the Ta£P Yale, inclading the Aber-
dale RaUway Company, derived, for the same
period, in ronnd numbers, an increase of
0500/., and from their "goods" conveyance,
45,941/. In neither instance did the pas-
sengers pay one -seventh as much as the
*' goods."
I now present the reader with two ** sma-
maries" from returns made to Parliament
The first relates to the number and description
of persons employed on raihrays in the Unitsd
Kingdom, and the second to the number and
character of railway accidents.
Concerning the individuals employed upon
the railways, the Table on the opposite page
contains the latest official information.
Of the railways in frOl operation, the London
and North-Westem employs the greatest num-
ber of persons, in its long and branching
extent of 477 miles, 35J chains, wifh IM
stations. The total number employed is
0194, and they are thus classified : —
Secretaries or managers ... 8
Engineers A
Superintendents 40
Storekeepers 8
Accountants or cashiers ... 4
Inspectors or timekeepers ... 83
Draughtsmen 11
Clerks 775
Foremen 180
Engine-drivers 334
Assistant-drivers or firemen . . .318
Guanls or breaksmen .... 207
Artificers 1891
Switchmen 303
Gatekeepers 70
Policemen or watchmen . . .241
Porters or messengers .... 1450
Platelayei-8 14
Labourers 30
On the Midland there were employed 4898
persons; on the Lancashire and Yorkshire,
3971 ; Great "Western, 2997 ; Eastern Counties,
2939 ; Caledonian, 2409 ; York, Newcastle, and
Berwick, 2781; London and South -Western,
2118; London, Brighton, and South -Coast,
2053; York and North Midland, 1014; North
British, 1530; and South . Eastern, 1527.
Thus the twelve leading companies retain per-
manently in their service 35,735 men, supply-
ing the means of maintenance, (reckoning Uiai
a family of three is supported by each man
employed) to 122,940 individuals. Pursuing^
the same calculation, as 159,784 men wero
employed on all the railways '* open and un-
open," we may conclude tiat 739,180 indi- J
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
825
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320
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
Adduols woro dependent, more or less, upon
railway traffic for their subsistence.
The other summary to which I have alluded
Ik one derived from a return which the House
of Commons ordered to be printed on the 8th
of April last. It is relative to the railway ac-
cidents that occurred in the United King,
dom during the half-year ending the 91st De-
cember, 1840, and supplies the following
nntilysis : —
" &4 passengers ii^ured from causes beyond
their own control.
II passengers killed and 10 iigured, owing
to their own misconduct or want of
caution.
2 servants of companies or of contractors
killed, and 3 injured, from causes be-
yond their own control.
02 sen-ants of companies or of contractors
killed, and 37 iiyured, owing to their
own misconduct or want of caution.
28 trespassers and other persons, neither
passengers nor sorvanU of the com-
pany, killed, and 7 iigured, by im-
properly crossing or standing on t)ie
railway.
1 child kiUed and 1 injured, by an engine
running otT the roils and entering a
liouse.
2 suicide.
Total, 100 killed and 112 injured.
The total numl)er of passengers conveyed
during tlio half-year omoimted to 34,924,400."
Tlie greatest number of accidents was on
the Lancashire and Yorkshire : 2,703,704 pas-
sengers were conveyed in the term specified,
and 17 individuals were killed and 24 injured.
On the York, Newcastle, and Berwick, 15 were
killed and injured, 1,013,123 passengers hav-
ing been conveyed. On the Midland, 2,058,903
liAving been the number of passengers, 0 per-
8<ms were killed and 7 iigured. On the Great
"NVestem, conveying 1,220,507} passengers,
2 indi>iduals were killed and 1 injured. On
the London and Blackwall, with 1,200.514 pas-
fiongers, tlierc was 1 man killed and 10 in.
jurcd. The London and Greenwich supplied
the means of locomotion to 1,120,237 persons,
ami none were killed and none were injured.
Those deaths on the railway, for the half-year
<*ited above, are in the proportion of 100 to
to 34,0J4.400, or 1 person killed to every
320,470; and the 100 killed include 2 suicides
and the deaths of 28 trespassers and others.
Tlie total number of persons who suffered
from accidents was 218, which is in the pro-
portion of 1 accident to every 1 00,203 persons
travelling ; and when the injuries arising from
this mode of conveyance are contrasted with
the loss of life by shipwreck, which, as before
stated, amounts to 1 in every 203 individuals,
the comparative safety of railway over marine
travellinjf must appear most extraonlinary.
Mr. Porter's calculation as to the number of
stage-coach travellers (which I oite under that
head) shows that my estimates are far from
extravagant
Inlamd Nayioation.
The next part of my subject is the ** water,
carriage," carried on by means of canals and
rivers. The means of inland navigation in
England and Wales are computed to compriM
more than 4000 miles, of which 2200 miles are
in navigable canals and 1800 in navigable riven.
In Ireland, such modes of communication ex.
tend about 500 miles, and in Scotland about 350.
As railways have been the growth of the present
half-centuzy, so did canals owe their increase, if
not their establishment, in England, to tin
half-century preceding _ from 1700 to 1800;
three-fourths of those now in existence having
been established during that period. Pre.
viously to the worics perfected by the Duke of
Bridgewater and his famous and self-taog^t
engineer, James Brindley, the efforts made to
improve our means of water-transit wen
mainly confined to attempts to improve the
navigation of rivers. These attempts wen
not attended with any great suocess. The
current of the river was often too impetooos to
be restrained in the artificial channels pn-
pared for tlte desired improvements, and the
forms and depths of the channels were gra-
dually changed by the current, so that laboor
and expense were very heavily and contumousl/
entailed. Difficulties in the way of river naii-
gation," says Mr. M*Culloch, " 8<3em to have
suggested the expediency of abandoning the
channels of most rivers, and of digging parallel
to them artificial channels, in which the water
may be kept at the proper level by means <tf
locks. The Act passed by the legislatnre in
1755 for improving the navigation of Sankej
Brook on the Mersey, gave rise to a laterd
canal of this description about 11^ miles in
length, which deserves to be mentioned as the
eariiest effort of the sort in England. But be.
fore this canal had been completed, the Duke
of Bridgewater and James Brindley had con-
ceived a plan of canalisation independent alto-
gether of natural channds, and intended to
afford the greatest facilities to commerce by
carrying canals across rivers and through
mountains, wherever it was practicable to con-
struct them."
The difficulties which Brindley oirereaDie
were considered insurmountable until he did
overcome them. In the construction of a
canal flrom Wondey to Manchester it was ne-
cessaiy to cross the river Irwell, where it is
navigable at Barton. Brindley proposed to
accomplish this by carrying an aqueduct 39
feet aWe the surface of the IrweU. This was
considered so extravagant a proposition that
there was a pause, and a gentleman eminent
for engineering knowledge was consulted. He
treated Brindlcy's scheme as the scheme ot a
visionaiy, dedanng that he had often heaid of
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
337
to in the air, Imt never before heard where
I was to be erected. The duke, howerer,
. oonfidence in his engineer; and a success-
seniceable, and profitable aqueduct, in.
id of a castle in the air, was the speedy and
oessfkil result The success of Brindley's
OS and the spirited munificence of the Duke
hidgewater, who, that he might have ample
ini to complete his projects, at one time
fined his mere personal expenses to 400^.
sar— laid the fbundations of the large for-
es enjoyed by the Duke of Sutherland and
brother the late Earl of Ellesmere.
rhe canals which have been commenced
I completed in the United Kingdom since
year 1800 are 30 in number, and extend
'i miles in lengtb.
ix, M*Culloch gives a list of British canals,
h the number of sharebolders in the pro-
itaiy of each, the amount and cost of
na, and the price on the 27th June, 1843.
B Erewash, with 231 shares, each 100/. re-
oed a dividend of 40/., each share being
n w<»th 675/. The Loughborough, with
J 70 100/. shares, the average cost of each
jre having been 142/. 17«., had a dividend
BOI. and a selling price per share of 1400/.
B Stroudwater, with 200 shares of 150/., re-
Md a dividend of 24/., with a price in the
rket of 490/. On the other hand, the 50/.
zee of the Crinau were then sellmg at 2/.
B dOI. shares of the North Walsham and
kn were of the same almost nominal value
the mariLet; and the shares of the Thames
I Medway, with an average cost of 30/.4«.3</.,
« worth but 1/. Of the cost expended in
istruction of the canals of Eoglaud, I have
means of giving a precise account ; but the
owing calculation seems sufficiently accurate
my present purpose. I find that, if in round
mbera the 250,000 shares of the 40 prin-
al canals averaged an expenditure of TOO/.
' share — the result would be 25,000,000/.,
1 perhaps we may estimate the canals of the
died Kingdom to have cost 35,000,000/., or
a-tenth as much as the railways.
rhe foregoing inquiries present the foUow-
; gigantic results : — There are employed in
> yearly transit of Great Britain, abroad
i along her own shores, 33,072 sailing-
tsels and 1110 steam-vessels, employing
},000 seamen. Calculating the vieJue of
:h ship and cargo as the value has been
imated before Parliament, at 5000/., we
re an aggregate value — sailing-vessels,
amers, and their cargoes included — of
3,010,000/. Further, supposing the yearly
ges of the seamen, including officers, to be
I. per head, the amount paid in wages would
4,720.000/.
The ridlways now in operation in the United
Dgdom extend 6000 miles, the cost of their
istruction (paid and to be paid) having been
imated at upwards of 350,000,000/. Last
ir they supphed the means of rapid travel
above 63,000,000 of passengers, who tra-
versed above a billion of miles. Their receipts
for the year approached 11,250,000/. of money,
and nearly three-quarters of a million of per-
sons are dependent upon them for subsist-
ence.
The turnpike and other roads of Great Bri-
tain alone (mdependently of Ireland) present
a sur&ce 120,000 miles in length, for the
various purposes of interchange, commerce,
and recreation. They are maintained by the
yearly expenditure of a million and a half.
For similar purposes the navigable canals
and rivers of Great Britain and Ireland furnish
an extent of 4850 miles, formed at a cost of
probably 35,000,000/. Adding all these toge-
ther, we have of turnpike-roads, railways, and
canals, no less than 130,000 and odd xniles,
formed at an aggregate cost of upwards of
386,000,000/. If weadd tothis the 54,250,000/.
capital expended in the mercantile marine, we
have the gross total of more than 440,000,000
of money sunk in the transit of the country.
If the number of miles traversed by the natives
of this country in the course of the year by
sea, road, rail, river, and canal, were summed
up, it would reach to a distance greater than
to the remotest planet yet discovered.
LONDON WATERMEN, LIGHTERMEN,
AND STEAMBOAT-MEN.
Of all the great capitals, London has least
the appearance of antiquity, and the Thames
has a peculiarly modem aspect. It is no
longer the " silent highway," for its silence is
continually broken by the clatter of steam-
boats. This change has materially aifected
the position and diminished the number of
the London watermen, into whose condition
and earnings I am now about to examine.
The character of the transit on the river
has, moreover, undergone a great change,
apart from the alteration produced by Uie
use of steam-power. Until the more general
use of coaches, in the reign of Charles n.,
the Thames supplied the only mode of con-
veyance, except horseback, by which men
could avoid the fatigue of walking; and that
it was made largely available, aU our older
London chroniclers show. From the termina-
tion of the wars of the Roses, until the end of
the 17th century, for about 200 years, all the
magnates of the metropolis, the king, the
members of the royal family, the great officers
of state, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the
noblemen whose mansions had sprung up
amidst trees and gardens on the north bank
of the Thames, the Lord Mayor, the City
authorities, the City Companies, and the Inns
of Court, all kept their own or their state
barges, rowed by their own servants, attired in
their respective liveries. In addition to the
river conveyances of these functionaries, pri-
vate boats or barges were maintained by all
328
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
whoso wealth permitted, orwhose convenience
required their use, in the same way as car-
riages and horses are kept hy them in our day.
The Thames, too, was then the principal
arena for the display of pageants. These
pageants, however, are now reduced to one —
the Lord Mayor's show. The remaining state
barges are but a few, viz. the Queen's, the
Lord Mayor's, and such as are maintained
by the City Companies, and even some of these
are rotting to decay.
Mr. Charles Knight says in his '* London :" —
*•* In the time of Elizabeth and the first James,
and onward to very recent days, the north
bank of the Thames was studdcMi with the
palaces of the nobles ; and each palace had its
landing-place, and its private retinue of barges
and wherries; and many a freight of the
brave and beautiful has been borne, amidst
song and merriment, from house to house,
to join the masque and the dance; and
many a wily statesman, muffled in his doak,
has glided along unseen in his boat, to some
dark conference with his ambitious neighbour.
Upon the river itself, busy as it was, fleets of
swans were ever sailing; and they ventured
immolested into that channel which is now
narrowed by vessels from every region.
Paulus Jovius, who died in 1 552, describing
the Thames, says : * This river abounds in
swans, swimming in flocks, the sight of whom,
and their noise, are vastly agreeable to the
fleets that meet them in their course.* The only
relics of the palatial * landing-places' above
alluded to, which is now to be seen, is the fine
arch, or water-gate, the work of Loigo Jones,
at the foot of Buckingham-street. This was
an adornment of the landing-place itom York
House, once the town abode of the arch-
bishops of that see, but afterwards the pro-
perty of George Yilliers, duke of Buckingham.
In frt)nt of this gate, or nearly so, the Hun-
gerford steam-boat piers are now stationed ;
and in place of stately barges, directed by
half-a-dozen robust oarsmen, in gorgeous
liveries, approaching the palace, or lying
silently in wait there, wo have halfpermy,
permy, twopenny, and other steam- boats, hiss-
ing, spluttering, panting, and smoking."
Moreover, in addition to the state and pri-
vate barges of the olden times, there were
multitudes of boats and watermen always on
hire. Stow, who was bom in 1020, and
died at eighty years of age, says that in
his time 49,000 watermen were employed
on the Thames. This, however, is a ma-
nifest exaggeration, when we consider the
population of London at that time; still it is
an over-estimate common to old chroniclers,
by whom precise statistical knowledge was
unattainable. That Stow represents the
number of these men at 40,000, shows
plainly that they were very numerous} and
one proof of their great number, down to the
middle of the last century, is, that imtil one
hundi'ed years ago, the cities of London and
Westminster had but one bridge •^ the old
London -bridge — which was commenced in
1176, completed in thirty-one years, and alter
standing 020 years, was pulled down in 1832.
The want of bridges to keep pace with the
increase of the population caused the establish*
ment of numerous ferries. It haa been oran-
puted, that in 1760 the ferriaa aortHn the
Thames, taking in its oourae from Richmond
to Greenwich, were twenty-five times as nu-
merous as they are at present Weatminster*
bridge was not finished until 1700; Blackfrian
was built in 1769 ; Battersea in 1771 ; Yauz.
hall in 1810 ; Waterloo in 1817 ; Soathwsk
in 1819 ; the present London-bridge in 1891 ;
and Hungerford in 1844.
ThI TUAXEB WATK&MSBir.
The character of the Thames woitrman in
the last century was what might haTe ben
expected from slightly-informed, or nnis-
formed, and not unprosperoos men. Tkqr
were hospitable and hearty one to anothtr,
and to their neighbours on shore ; dril to
such fares as were civil to them, especiaUj if
they hoped for an extra sixpence ; ont often
saucy, abusive, and even sarcastio. Tbtir
interchange of abuse with one another, as they
rode on the Thames, down to the commenoe-
ment of the present century, if not later, vis
remarkable for its slang. In this sort of coo*
test their fares not unfrequentl^ joined; lod
even Dr. Johnson, when on the nver, exerrised
his powers of objurgation to overwhelm sonie
astonished Londoner in a passing boat.
During the greater part of the last century
Uie Thames watermen were employed in a
service now unknown to them. They were
the carriers, when the tide and the weather
availed, of the garden-stuff and the fhiit grown
in the neighbourhood of the river frx>m Wool-
wich and Hampton to the London maiketi.
The green and firmly-packed pyramids of cab-
bages that now load the waggons were then
piled in boats : and it was the same with firoit
One of the most picturesque siehts Sir Biohiid
Steele ever eigoyed was when he encountered,
at the early dawn of a summer's day, ** a fleet <rf
Biohmond gardeners," of which " ten sail of
apricot-boats" formed a prominent and fit-
grant part. Turnpike-roads and railways here
superseded this means of convevanoe, wfaidi
oould only be made available when the tide
served.
The observances on the Thames customeiy
in the olden time still continue, though oo
a very reduced scale. The Queen hss btf
watermen, but they have only been employed
as the rowers of her barge twice since htf
accession to the throne ; once when Ber
Majesty and Prince Albert visited tha
Thames Turmel; and again when Piiaoe
Albert took water at AVhitehall, and was rowed
to the city to open the Coal-exchange. Be-
sides the Queen's watermen, there are itiQ
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
829
extant the dukes' and lords' watermen; the
Lord Minor's and the City Companies', as woU
as those belonging to the Admiralty. The
above cooatitute what are called the privileged
watermen, having certain rights and emolu-
ments appertaining to them which do not loll
to the lot of the class generally.
The Queen's watermen are now only
eighteen in number. Thoy have no payment
except when actually employed, and then they
have 10«. for such employment. They have,
however, a suit of clothes ; a red jacket, with
the royal arms on the buttons, and dark
tiouserSjpresented to tliem once every two
years. They have also the privileges of the
servants ai the household, such as exemption
from taxes, &c. Most of them are proprietors
of lighters, and are prosperous men.
The nrivileges of the retainers of tlie nobles
m the Stuart days linger still among the lords'
and dukes' watermen, but only as a mere
shadow of a fading substance. There are five
or six men now who wear a kind of livery. I
heard of no particular fashion in this hvery
being observed, either now or within the
memory of the waterman. Their only privi-
lege is that they are free from impressment
In the war time these men were more tliau
twenty-five times as numerous as they are at
present; in fact they are dying out, and the
last ^ dukes," and the last " lord's " privileged
watermen are now, as I was told, '* on their last
legs."
The Lord Mayor's watermen are slill un.
diminished in number, the complement being
thirty-six. Of these, eiglit are water- bailiffs,
who, in any procession, row in a boat before
the Lord Mayor's state -bai-^e. The other
twenty-eight are Uie rowers of the cliief magis-
trate's barge on his aquatic excursions. They
are all free from impressment, and are supplied
with a red jacket and dark trousers every two
years, the city arms being on the buttons.
One of these men told me that he had been
a Lord Mayor's man for some yt.ui's, and made
about eight journeys a-year, *' swan-hoppiug
and such-hke," the show beiug, as liu said, a
regular thing : 10s. a voyage was paid eacli man.
It was jolly work, my informant stated, some-
times, was swan-hopping, though it depended
on the Lord Mayor for the time being whether
it was jolly or not. lie had heard say, that
in the old times the Lord Mayor's bargemen
had spiced wine regularly when out. But now
they had no wine of any sort — ^but sometimes,
when a Lord Mayor pleased; and he did not
always please. My mformant was a lighter-
man as well as a Lord Mayor's waterman, and
was doing well.
Among other ])rivilcged classes ore the
'* hog-grubbers " (us they are called by tlic
other watermen), but their number is now
only fbur. These hog-grubbers ply only at
the Pelican stairs ; thev have been old sailors
in the navy, and are hcensed by tlio Tiinity
house. 17o apprenticeship or freedom of the
Watennan's Company in that case being neces-
■ar>'. " There was from forty to filly of them,
sir," said a waterman to mo, ** when I was a
lad, and I am not fifty-three, and fine old
fellows they were. But they're all going \m
notliing now."
The Admiralty watermen arc another pri-
vileged class. They have a suit of clothes onco
every two years, a dark-blue jacket and
trousers, with an anchor on the buttons.
They also wear badges, and are exempt from
impressment. Their business is to row the
officials of the Admiralty when they vibit
Deptfbrd on Trinity Monday, and on all oc-
casions of business or recreation. They aro
now about eighteen in number. They receive
no salary, but are paid per voyage at the same
rate as the Lord Mayors watermen. There
was also a class known as "the navy water-
men," who eigoyed the same privileges as the
others, but they are now extinct Such of
the city companies as retain their barges have
also their own watermen, whose services are
rarely put into requisition above twice a-year.
The Stationers' Company have lately relin-
quished keeping their barge.
The present number of Thames watermen
(privileged and unprivileged) is, I am in-
formed by an officer of the Waterman's Hall,
about 1600. Tho Occupation Abstract of 1841
gives the number of London boat, barge, and
watermen as ]Gr)4. The men themselves have
very loose notions as to tlieir number. One
man computed it to me at 112,000; another ut
14,000. This is endontly a traditional com-
putation, handed down from tho days wht-n
watermen were in greater requisition. To en-
title any one to ply for hire on the river, or to
work about for payment, it is provided by tlio
laws of the City that he shall have duly and
truly served a seven-years' apprenticeship to
H litrtinsed waterman, and shall have taken up
his freedom at "NVatermau's Hall. I licard
many complaints of this regulation being in-
fringed. There were now, I was told, about
lliU men employtnl by tlie Custom-house and
in tlie Thames Police, wlio were not free water-
men. *• There's a good many from Rochester
way, sir," one waterman said, *• and doTni that
way. They've got in throufjh the interest of
members of Piu'liameut., and such-hke, while
there's many free watenncn, that's gone to
tlic expense of taking up their freedom, just
stiirving. But we ore going to see about it,
and it's liigh time. Either give us back tho
money we've paid for our rights, or let us have
our proper rights — tliafs what I say. Why,
only yesterday, there was two accidents on tho
river, though no lives were lost. Both was
owing to unlicensed men.'*
**It's neither this nor that," said an old
waterman to me, alluding to the decrease in
their number and tlieir eiu-ninps, " people may
talk as they hke about what's been the ruin of
us — it's nothing but new London Bridge.
When my old father heard that the old bridge
3.10
LONDON LABOUR AND THB LONDON POOR.
was to come down, * Bill,' says he, ' it'll be up
with the watermen in no time. If the old
bridge had Blood, how would all these steamers
have shot Lct ? Some of them could never
have got through at all. At some tides, it was
so hard to shoot London Bridge (to go clear
through the arches), that people wouldn't
txnst themselves to any but watermen. Now
any fool might manage. London-bridge, sir,
depend on it has ruined us.'"
The pUces where the watermen now ply,
are, on tlio Middlesex shore, beginning irom
London Bridge, down the river, Somers Quay,
Upper Custom-house Quay, Lower Custom-
house Quay, Tower Stairs, Lrongate Stairs,
St. Katharine's, Alderman's Stairs, Hermitage
Stairs, Union Stairs, Wapping Old Stairs,
Wapping New Stairs, Execution Dock, Wap-
ping Dock, New Crane Stairs, Shadwell Dock
Stairs, King James's Stairs, Cold Stairs, Stone
Stairs, Hanover Stairs, Duke's Shore, Lime-
house Hole, Chalk Stones, 'ffasthouse, and
Horseferry. On tlie Surrey side, beginning
from Greenwich, are Greenwich, Lower Water-
gate, Upi)er Water-gate, Geoige's Stairs,
Deptford Stairs, Dog-and-Duck Stairs, Cuck-
old's Point, Horseferry Road, Globe Stairs,
King-and-Queen Stairs, Surrey Canal Stairs,
Hanover Kow, Church Stairs, Rotherhithe
Stairs, Prince's Stairs, Cherry Garden, Foun-
tain High Stairs, East Lane, Mill Stairs, Horse
and Groom Now Stairs, George's Stairs, Horse
and Groom Old Stairs, Pickle Herring Stairs,
Battle Bridge Stairs, and London Bridge
Stnint.
Above London Bridge, the watermen's
stairs or stations on the Middlesex shore are,
London Bridge, All Hallows, Southwark
liriilge, Paul's Wharf, Blackfriars, Fox-under-
the->till, Adelphi, Hungerford, Whitehall-
Stairs, Westminster Bridge, Horsefeny, Yanx-
hall, and Hammersmith. On the opposite
shore are London Bridge, Horseshoe Alley,
Bankside, Southwark Bridge, Blackfriars
Hodges, Waterloo Bridge, Westminster Bridge,
Stangate Stairs, Lambeth Stairs, Yauxhall
Bridge, Nine Elms, and the Rod House, Bat-
terseo. Beyond, at Putney, and on both sides
of the river up to Richmond, boats are to be
hod on liire, but the watermen who work them
are known to their London brethren as ** up-
country watermen" — ^men who do not regu-
larly ply for hire, and who are not in regular
attendance at the river side, though duly
licensed. They convey passengers or luggage,
or packages of any kind adapted to the
burden of a boat of a light draught of water.
When they are not employed^ their boats are
kept chained to piles driven into the water's
edge. These men occasionally work in the
market gardens, or undertake any job within
their power; but, though they are civil and
honest, they are only partially employed either
on or off the river, and ore very poor. Some-
times, when no better employment is in pros-
pect, they stand at tlie toll-bridges of Putney,
Hammaramith, or Kew, and oiEBr to canry
pasaamgers across for ibib price of the toll.
Since the prevalence of steam-packets as a
means of locomotion along the Thames, the
" stairs,'* (if so they may be called), above
bridge, are for the most part almost nominal
stations for the watermen. At London Bridge
stairs (Middlesex side), there now fie but
three boats, while, before the steam ei», or
rather before the removal of the old London
Bridge, ten times that number of boats were
to be *' hailed " there. At Waterloo and South-
wark bridges, a man stands near the toll-gate
offering a water conveyance no dearer than the
toll ; but it is hopeless to make this propositioQ
when the tide is low, and these men, I am
assured, hardly make eightpence a-day when
offering this ftitile opposition. The stain
above bridge most frequented by the water-
men, are at the Bed House, Battersea, where
there are many visitors to witness or take
part in shooting-matches, or for dinner ox
picnic parties.
Down the river, the Greenwich stairs are
the most numerously stocked with b<Mt8. Or-
dinarily about thirty boats are to be eni^aged
there, but the business of the watermen is not
one-twentieth so much to convey yssengen
as to board any sailing vessels beating up for
London, and to inquire with an offer of their
services (many of them being pilots) if thef
can be of any use, either aboard or ashore.
The number of ** stairs " which may be con-
sidered as the recognised stations of watermen
plying for hire, are, as I hare shown by the
foregoing enumeration, 75. The watermen
plying at these places, I am told, by the best-
informed men, average seventy a ** stairs."
This gives 525 men and boats, bnt that, how-
ever, as we shall presently see, presents no
criterion of the actual number of persons
authorised to act as watermen.
Near the stairs below bridge the watermen
stand looking out for customers, or they sit
on an a^acent form, protected firom the wea-
ther, some smoking and some dosing. They
are weather-beaten, strong-looking men, and
most of them are of, or above, the middle
age. Those who are not privileged work in
the same way as the privileged, wear all
kinds of dresses, but generally something in
the nature of a sailor's garb, such as a
strong pilot-jacket and thin canvas trooseis.
The present race of watermen have, I am
assured, lost the sauciness (with occasional
smartness) that distinguished their prede-
cessors. They are mostly patient, plodding
men, enduring poverty heroically, and shrink,
ing far more than many other classes from
any application for parish relief. " There is
not a more independent lot that way in
London," said a waterman to me, *' and God
knows it isn't for want of all the claims which
being poor can give us, that we dont apply to
the workhouse." Some, however, are obliged
to spend their old age, when incapable of
Eh
m
o
GQ ^
e
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON i*OOJi.
331
kbour, in the union. Half or more than one-
half of the Thames watermen, I am credibly
iufoi-med, can read and write. They used to
drink quantities of bcor, but now, from the
BtreiKi of altered circumstances, tbey ai'e gono-
ndly temperate men. The watermen are
nearly all married, and have ftuuilies. Some
of their wives work for the 8loi)-tailors. They
all reside in the small streets near the river,
usually in single rooms, rented at from Is. Od,
to 2$. a-week. At least three-fourths of the
Tkotermen have apprentices, and they nearly
all are sons or relatives of the watermen. For
tills I heard two reasons assigned. One was,
that lads whose childhood was passed among
boats and on the water contracted a taste for
A waterman's life, and were unwilling to be
apprenticed to any other calling. The other
reason was, that the poverty of the watenncn
compelled them to bring up their sons in this
manner, as the readiest mode of giving them
a trade ; and many thus apprt>nticed become
seamen in the merchant service, and occa-
sioDollv in the royal ua\7, or get emplo^-ment
as working-lightermen, or on board the river
steamers.
At each stairs there is what is called a
'Hnmway and causeway club," to which the
men contribute each 2s, per quarter. One of
the regulations of these clubs is, that the
oldest men have the first tiun on Monday,
and the next oldest on Tuesday, and so on,
through the several days of the week, until
Saturday, which is the apprentices' day. The
fund raised by the Us. subscription is for
keeping the causeway clean and in repair.
There is also a society in connexion with the
whole body of watermen, called the ** Pro-
tection Society," to proceed against any parties
who infringe upon their pri\ilegos. To this
society they pay Id. per week each. The
Greenwich watermen are engaged generally
OS pilots to colliers, and other small crafts.
From one of the watermen, plying near the
Tower, I had the following statement: —
" I have been a waterman eig}it-aud-twenty
years. I served my seven years duly and
truly to my father. 1 liml nothing but ray
keep and clothes, and that's the regular
custom. We must serve scvun years to be
free of the river. It's the same now in our
apprenticeshix). No pay; and some masters
will neither wash, nor clothe, nor mend a
l>oy: and all that ouglit to bo done by the
laaster, by rights. Times and musters is
harder than ever. After my time was out I
^vni to sea, and was pretty lucky in my
Voyages. I was at sea in the merchant service
^ve years. When I came back I bought a
l>oat. My father helped mo to start as a
'^vatenuan on the Thames. The boat cost
*iio twenty guineas, it would cany eight fares,
It cost 2/. 15«. to be made un apprentice, nnd
r^boiit 4/. to have a license to start for myself.
in my fiithiir's time — ^from what I know when
X was his apprentice, and what I've heard him
waterman's was a jolly life. He earned
16s. to i8«. a-day, and spent it accordingly.
WTien I firtit started for myself, twenty-eight
years ago, I made Vis. to 145. a-dav, mora
than I make in a week now, but that was
before steamers. Many of us watermen saved
money then, but now we're starving. These
good times lasted for me nine or ten years,
and in the middle of the good times I got
niivried. 1 was justified, my earnings was
good. But steamers oame in. and^ we were
\kTeoked. My father was in the Eiver Fen-
cibles, which was a bodv of men that agreed
to volunteer to sen'e on board ships that went
on convoys in the war times. The watermen
was bound to supply so many men for tliat
and for the fleet I can't coll to mind the
year, but the fuU number wasn't supplied, and
there was a press. Some of my neighboure,
watermen now, was of the press-gang. "When
the press was on there was a terrible to do,
and all sorts of shifts among tlie watermen.
The yoimg ones ran away to their motliers,
and kept in hiding. I was too young theu,-r
I was an apprentice, too, — to bo pressed.
But u lieutenant once put his hand on my
poll, and said, * My fine red-headed fellow,
you'll be the veiy man fbr me when you're
old enough.' Mine's a veiy bad trade — I
make from \0s. to V-ls. a- week, and that's all
my wife and me has to live on. I've no
children — Uiank the Lord for it: for I seo
tliat several of the watermen's children nui
about without shoes or stockings. On Mon-
day I tamed Is. \)d., on Tuesday, Is. 7c/., on
Weilnosday, which was a very wet day, I*.,
and yosWrday, Thursday, 1*. C</., and up to
this day, l>i<lay noon, I've earned nothing as
yet. We work Sundays and all. My expenses
wlien I'm out isn't much. My wife puts mo
up a bit of meat, or bacon and bread, if wo
have any in the hi>use, and if I've earned any-
thing 1 eat it witli half-arpint of beer, or a
pint at times. Ours is hard work, and we
requires support if we can only get it. If I
bring no meat ^sith me to the stairs, I bring
some bread, and get hulf-a-pint of coffee with
it, which is Ic^. We have to slave hard in
some weathers when we're at work, and indeed
we're always eitlier slaving or sitting quit©
idle. Our principal customers arc people that
want to go across in a hurr^'. At night — and
we take night work two and two about, two
dozen of us, in turn — we have double fares.
There's very few coimtry visitors take boats
now to see sights upon Uie river. The swell
of tlie steamers frightens tliem. Lost Friday
a lady and gentleman engaged me for 2s. to
go to the Thames Tmmel, but a steamer
passed, and Uio lady said, * Oh, look what a
surf! I don't like to venture;' and so she
wouldn't, and I sat five hours aft«r that before
I'd earned a farthing. I remember the first
steamer on the river ; it was fr«)m Gravesend,
I think. It was good fi.r us men at first, as
the passengers came ashore in boats. There
833
LOKDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
was no steam-pien then, bat now the big
foreign steamen can come alongside, and
ladies and cattle and all can step ashore on
platforms. The good times is over, and we
are ready now to snap at one another for 8«(.,
when once we didnt care about 1<. We're
beaten by engines and steamings that nobody
can well understand, and wheels.**
*^ Bare John Taylor," the water-poet in the
days of James I. and Charles L, with whose
name I fonnd most of the watermen fkmUiar
(at least they had heard of him), complained
of the decay of his trade as a waterman, inas-
much as in his latter days ** every Oill Turn-
tripe, Mistress Tumkins, Madame Polecat, my
Lady Trash, Froth the tapter. Bill the tailor,
Lavender the broker, Whiff the tobacco-seller,
with their companion trulls, mtist be coached."
He complained that wheeled conveyances
ashore, although they made the casements
shatter, totter, and clatter, were preferred to
boats, and were tlie ruin of (be watermen.
And it is somewhat remarkable that the water-
flien of our day complain of the same detri-
ment from, wheeled conveyances on the water.
ThB LlOHTERMXll AND BABOXlUCir.
Th£6E are also liceoBed watermen. The
London watermen rarely apply the term
bargemen to any persons working on the
river; they confine the appellation to those
who work in the barges in the canals, and
who need not be free of the river, though
some of them are so, many of them being also
seamen or old men-of-war's men. The river
lightermen (as the watermen style them all,
no matter what the craft) are, however, so
far a distinct class, that they convey goods
only, and not passengers : while the watermen
convey only passengers, or such light goods as
{>assengers may take with them in the way of
nggage. The lighters are the large boats
used to carry the goods which form t£e cargo
to the vessels in the river or the docks, or
fhim the vessels to the shore. The barge is a
kind of larger lighter, built deeper and
stronger, and is confined principally to the
conveyance of coaL Two men are generally
employed in the management of a barge.
The lighters are adapted for the conveyance
of com, timber, stone, groceries and general
merchandise: and the several vessels are
usually confined to such purposes — a com
lighter being seldom used, for instance, to
earry sugar. The lighters and barges in
present use are built to carry fVom 6 to 120
tons, the greater weight being that of the huge
coal baiges. A lighter canying fourteen tons
of merchandise costs, when new, 120/. — and
this is an average size and price. Some of
these lighters are the property of the men
who drive them, and who are a prosperous
class compared with the poor watermen. The
lightermen cannot be said to apply for hire
in the way of the watermen, but they are
always what Uiey call " on the look out" If
a vessel arrives, some of them go on board
and ofiSar their services to the captain in case
he be concerned in having his cargo tnoks-
ported ashore; or they asoertain to what
merchant or grocer goods may be eonaigBed,
and apply to uem for employment in lifter*
age, unless they know that soma partieolur
l^hteiman is regulariy employed by the oon-
signee. There are no settted chaigoa each
tjadeaman has his regular scale, or drives his
own bargains for lighterage, as he does ibrthe
supply of any other commodity. I heard no
complaints of underselling among the lighter-
men, but the men who drive their own boati
themselves sometimes submit to veiy hard
bargains. Laden lighters, I was told on all
hands, ought not, in " anything like weather,*
to be worked by fewer than two men; but the
hard bargains I have spoken of induce some
working lightermen to attempt feats beyond
their strength, in driving a laden lighter
unassisted. Sometimes the watermen have to
put off to render assistance, when th^ see a
lighter unmanageable. Lighters can only
proceed with the tide, and are often moored
in the middle of the river, waiting the tom of
the tide, more especially when their load con-
sists of heavy articles. The lighters, when not
employed, are moored alongshore, often close
to a waterman's stairs. Most master-lighter-
men have offices by the waterside, and aU have
places where '* they may always be heard oV*
Many lightermen are capitalists, and employ a
number of hands. The ** London Post OfBoe
Directory" gives the names of 176 master-
lightermen. If a ship has to be laden or
unladen in a hurry, one of them is usuilly
employed, and he sets a series of lifters ''on
the job," so that there is no cessation in the
worL Most lightermen are occasionally on-
ployers; sometimes engaging watermen to
assist them, sometimes hiring a lighter, in
addition to their own, f^m some lightennaiL
A man employed occasionally by one of the
greater masters made the following state-
ment:—
'* I work for Mr. — , and drive a Ugbter
that cost above 100/., mostly at merchandise.
I have 28s. a-week, and 2s. extra every night
when there's nightwork. I should be rigfat
well off if that lasted all the year through, bot
it don't On a Saturday night, when we've
waited for our money till ten or eleven perhi^
master will say, ' I have nothing for you on
Monday, but you can look in.' Hell say that
to a dozen of us, and we may not have a job
till the week's half over, or not one at all
That's the mischief of our trade. I havent
means to get a lighter of my own, though I
cant say I'm badly off; and I'm a single man ;
and if I had a lighter I've no connexion.
There's very few of the great lightermen thai
one has a regular berth under. I suppose I
midce 14s. or 10s. the year through, lumping it
all like."
LONJOOy LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
aM
Khtennen who are employed in the
36 of goods chargeable wiUi duty are
ly the Excise Office, as acheck against
ayaace of contraband artides. Both
ifltoia of the lighter and the x>ersons
fS most be licensed for this convey-
cost being 6t. yearly. A licensed
I amployed casually by the mastor-
ji IB jmown as a jobber, and has 65.
M aTerage payment of the regular
of the lighterman is 20«. a- week;
I employers, whom I heard warmly
ig the old masters, give dO«. a-week.
Ml to this 20«. or 30«., as the case
ightwork ensures 2«. or 2«. %d, extra.
B permanent labourers under the
n appear to be fairly paid,
itster-lightermen, as I said before,
rding to the " Post Office Directory,"
mb«r. I am told that the number
taken (as the Directory gives only
i have offices) at 200 at the least, and
bis number one half employ, on an
one man each. The proprietors of
srs who average ten hands in their
mnot be reckoned among men work-
» river, except perhaps one-fourth of
iber, but of the other class all work
M. The annual nxmiber of actual
in this department of metropolitan
fill thus be 125 proprietors to 1100
ietors, or 1225 in all, driving 1100
t the least. The bargemen, who are
loyed, when convenience requires, as
n, are 400 or 500, driving more than
nomber of barges ; but in these are
ied many coal barges, which are the
>f the coal-merchants having whar&.
iber of London boat-bargemen and
n given in the Occupation Abstract
was 1503, which, allowing for the
»f population, will be found to differ
ly from the numbers above g^ven.
jhtermen differ little in character
watermen, but, as far as their better
noes have permitted them, they
a comfortable homes. I speak of the
ightermen, who are also proprietors ;
can all, with very few exceptions, read
They all reside near the river, and
near the Docks — ^the great minority
live on the Middlesex side. They
jer class of men, both the working
nd the men they employ. A drunken
in,Iwa8 told, would hardly be trusted
Che watermen and lightermen are
by the by-laws of the City, passed
gulation of the freemen of the Com-
Master, Wardens, and Commonalty
men and Lightermen of the Kiver
their widows and apprentices, to row
tMMLts, vessels, and other craft, in all
he river, from New Windsor, Berks,
St Creek (below Gravesend), Kent,
. docks, canals, creeks, and harbours,
. of the said river, so far as the tide
flows therein. A rule of the corporation, in
1836, speoifles the construction and ^Umen-
sions of the boats to be built, after ^t date,
for the use of the watermen. A wheny to
cany eight i>ersons, was to be 20| feet in
length of keel, 4^ feet breadth in the mid-
ships, and of the burden of 21 cwt A skiff to
carry four persons was to be 14 feet length of
keel, 5 feet breadth in the midships, and 1 ton
burden. The necessity of improved construc-
tion in the watermen's boats, since the intro-
duction of steamers caused swells on the
river, was strongly insisted on by several of
the witnesses before Parliament, who produced
plans for improved craft, but the poverty of
the watermen has made the regulations of the
authorities all but a dead letter. These river
labourers are unable to procure new boats, and
th^ patch up the old onifL
The census of 1841 gives the following
result as to the number of those employed in
boatwork in the metropolis : —
Boat and barge-men and women . 2516
Lightermen . . ' . . 1503
Watermen 1654
5078
The boat and barge-men and women thus
enumerated are, I presume, those employed
on the canals which centre in the metropolis ;
so that, deducting these frx)m the 5673 la-
bourers above given, we have 8157, the total
nxmiber of boat, bargemen, lightermen, and
watermen, belong to the Thames.
Steak Navigation.
I HAVE now to speak of the last great
change in river transit — the introduction of
steam navigation on the river Thames. The
first steamboat used in river navigation, or,
indeed, in any navigation, was one built and
launched by Fulton, on the river Hudson,
New York, in 1807. It was not until eleven
years later, or in 1818, that the ftrst English
river steamboat challenged the notice of the
citizens as she commenced her voyage on the
Thames, running daily from the Dundee
Arms, Wapping, to Gravesend and back.
She was called ** Margery," and was the pro-
perty of a company, who started her as an
experiment. She was about the burden of
the present Gravesend steamers, but she did
not possess covered paddle-wheels, being
propelled by uncovered wheels (which were
at the time compared to ducks' feet,) pro-
jecting from the extremity of the stem.
The splashing made by the strokes of tlie
wheels was extreme, and afforded a subject
for all the ridicule and vnX the watermen
were masters of. Occasionally, too, the
steamer came into contact with a barge, and
broke one or moro of her duck feet, which
might cauM a delay of an hour or so (as it
884
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOE.
was worded tome) before a jury dock-foot
could be Atted, and perhaps, before another
mile was done, there was another break and
another stoppage. These delays, which would
now be intolerable, were less regarded at that
period, when the average duration of a voyage
from Wapping to Gravesend by the " Margery"
was about b\ hours, while at present, with
favouring wind and tide, the distance from
London-bridge to Gravesend, thirty-one miles
by water, is done in less than one hour and a
half. The fares by the first river steamer were
Ha. for the best, and iJ«. Brf. for the fore cabin.
Sailing-packets, at that time, ran from the
Dundee Arms to Gravesend, the fore being
1*. Orf. ; and these vessels were sometimes a
day, and sometimes a day and a-half in ac-
complishing the distance. The first river
stcnmboat, after running les;? than three
months of the summer, was abandoned as a
failure. A favourite nickname, given by the
watermen and the river-side idlers to the un-
fortunate " Margery" was " the Yankee Tor-
pedo." About that time there had been an
explosion of an American steamer, named the
" Torpedo," with loss of life, and the epithet,
doubtless, had an influence in deterring tho
timid from venturing on a voyage down the
Thames in so dangorous a vessel. The con-
struction of the "Margery" was, moreover,
greatly inferior to the steamers of the pre-
sent day, as when she shot off her steam
she frequently shot off boiling water along
with it. One watennan told me that he had
his right hand so scalded by the hot water,
as ho was near the " Margeiy," in his boat,
that it was disabled for a week.
In the following summer another steamer
was started by another company — the " Old
Thames." The '* Old Thames " had paddle-
wheels, as in the present build, her speed
was better by about ono mile in ten than
that of her predecessor, and her success was
greater. She ran the same route, at the
same prices, until the " Mtyestic," the third
river steamer, was started in the same year
by a rival company, and the fares were reduced
to 2*. Qd. and 2.i. The "Majestic" ran ft*om
the Tower to (Jravesend. At this tinip, and
twenty ) o;irs afterwards, the watermen had to
convoy passengers in boats to and from the
steamers, as one of the watermen has state<l
in the narrative I have given. This was an
additional source of employment to them,
and led to frequent quarrels among them as
to their terms in conveying passengers and
luggage ; and these quarrels letl to lioquent
complaints from tho captains of the steamers,
owng to thvir passengers b(»ing subject to an-
noyances and occasioned extortions from the
watermen. In 1«20, two smaller boats, the
** Favourite " and the " Sons of Commerce '
were started, and the distance was accom-
plished in half the time. It was not until
1880, however, that steam navigation became
at all general above bridge.
The increase of the tirer steambottts from
1830 is evinced by the following TaUe :^
Nmnbtrof
Nombor
Tear*.
of Voyagct.
1820
4
227
1830
20
2844
1825
48
8S48
Thus we have an increase in Uie ten ye«n
from 1820 to 1830 of 16 steameiB; and in
the five years from 1880 to 1835, of 28 over
tlio number employed in 1880; and of 39
over the ninnber of 1820.
During the next thirty years — that ia from
1820 to 1850, — there was on increase of 66
steamers.
The diminution in the time oeenpied bytlie
river steamboats in executing their voyages, is
quite as remarkable as the increase in their
numbers. In 1820, four boats performed 227
voyages ; or presuming that they ran, at tbit
perio<l, 26 weeks in tho year, Obf voyages each,
or about two a- week. In 1880, ft^owing the
same calculation, 20 steamers accomplished
2844 voyages, being 117 each, or between 4
and 5 voyages a- week. In 1885, 48 steamers
made 884;3 voyages, being 205 voyages each,
or about 8 a-week. During this time some of
tho steamers going the longer distances, such
as to l^ichmond, Gravesend, &o. ran only
one, two, or three days in the week, which
accounts for the paucity of voyages compared
with the number of vessels.
In 1820, only 227 voyages were accomplished
during the season of twenty-six weeks; in
180O, half that number of voyages were accom-
plishod daily during a similar tenn, and daring
the whole of that term the river steamboats
convoyed 27,055,200 passengers. The amount
expended in this mode of transit exceeds a
quarter of a million sterling, or upwards of
half-a- crown a-head for the entire metropolitan
population.
The consequences of the increase of steam-
navigation commanded the attention of Par-
liament in the year 1831, when voluminous
evidence was taken before a Committee of the
House of Commons, but no Icgisladvo enact-
ments follow<Hl, the raanagonont of the steam
traffic, as well as that of Sil other river traific,
being L ft in the hands of the Navigation
Committee of the Corporation of London, of
the composition of which body I have already
spoken. " Collisions have taken place," said
Sir John Hall, in 1836 ; " barges, boats, and
craft, have l>een swamped, and valuable pro«
perty destroyed, from the crowded and nar-
row space of the passage through the Pool ;
and human life has, in somo instances, ftl^)
fallen a sai^ritice from such coUisions, ami
in othors, from the effect of the undulations
of tho water produced by the action of tho
paddle-wheels of the steamboats, — rircnw-
stances which have been aggravated by tho
unnecessary velocity with which some of
thoso vessels have been occasionally pro-
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
335
pelled." The Tetnrns laid before ParliAinent
show three deaths, in 1834, attribntable to
fiteam craft. In the year 1835, the number of
deaths from the same causes was no less
than ten. In all these cases inquests were
held. In 1834, the number of deaths, firom
•11 causes, whether of oceident or suicide on
the river, as investigated by the coroner, was
flfty-four; the deaths caused by steamboats
being one-eighteenth that number; while, in
1935, the deaths Arom all causes were forty-one,
tbe steamboats having occasioned loss of life
to nearly one-fourth of that number.
To obviate the danger and risk to boats, it
was suggested to the committee that the
steamers should not be propelled beyond a
eertnin rate, and that an indicator should be
placed on board, which, by recording the num-
ber of revolutions of the paddle-wheels, should
show the speed of the steam-vessel, while ex-
cessive speed, when thus detected, was to en-
tail punishment It was shown, however,
that the number of times the wheel revolves
ftlTords no criterion of the speed of the vessel,
as regards the space traverse«l in a given
period. Her speed is affected by depth of
water, weight of cargo, number of pnssengers,
by her superior or infbrior construction an<l
handling, and most especially by hor ^o\r\^
with or against the tide; while, in nil these
eircnmstances of.var}'ing speed, ns reitfnrds
rates of progress, the revolutions of tlie pad-
dle-wheels might, in every fifteen minutes,
vaij little in number. The tide moves, ebb
md flow, on the average, three miles an hour.
Mr. Rowland, the harbour-master, has said,
touching the proper speed of steam-vessels on
the river : — " Four miles an hour through the
water against the tide, and seven with the
tide, would give ample speed for the steam-
boats. An opportunity would thus bo afforded
of travelling over the ground against the tide
at the rate of about fbur miles an hour, and
with the tide they would positively pass over
the ground at the rate of about seven miles."
The rate at which tlie better class of river
steamers progress, when fairly in motion, is
now from eight to nine miles an hour.
Although no legislative enactments for the
better relation of the river steam navigation
took place after the Iteport of the Committee,
accidents from the ci^uso referred to are now
imfrequont. In the present year, I am in-
formed, there has been no loss of life on the
Thames occasioned by steamboats. This is
attributable to a belter and clearer "water
way" being kept, nnd to a greater efficiency on
the part of the captains nnd helmsmen of the
river steam fleet.
It is common for people proceeding from
London-bridge to Gruvcsend io exclaim about
the ** crowds of shipping! " The fact is, how-
ever, that notwithstanding the great increase
in the commerce and traffic of the capital, the
Thames is less crowded with shipping than it
was at the beginning of the century. Mr.
Banyon, clerk to the Waterman's Company, in
his evidence before a Committee of the House
of Commons, described himself as a *' practical
man twenty-two years before 1811." He says,
"There is a wonderful ilifference since my
time. I was on the river prerious to any
docks being made, when all the trade of the
country was laying out in the river. . • . .
The river was then so crowded that tho tiers
used to overlap one another, and we used to
be obliged to l»ing up so as to prevent getting
athwart hawse." I mention this fiict to show
that, without the relief afforded by the docks,
steam navigation would be utterly imprac-
ticable.
The average tonnage of a steam-vessel, of a
build adapted to run between London nnd
Greenwich, or Woohrich, is 70 or 80 tons;
OTie adapted to run to Gravesend or beyond is
about 180 tons ; and those merely suitable for
plying between London-bridge and Westmin-
ster, 40 or 60 tons. What is tho nimibf?r of
persons, p«^r ton, which may naftly bo en-
trusted to the conveyance of stenmboata,
authorities aro not agreed upon. Mr. W.
Cunningham, the captain of n Woolwich
steamer, represented it to the committee as
four or five to the ton, though he admits that
five to the ton inconvenienced the passengers
by crowding them. The tonnage of Mr. Cun-
ningham's vessel was 77 ; his average number
of passengers, "on extreme freights," was
200 ; yet he once carried 500 persons, tliough,
by his own admission, 385 would involve
crowding.
Tho changes wrought in the appearance of
the river, and in the condition of the water-
man, by the introduction of steamers, have
been rapid and marked. Not only since the
steam era have new boats and new companies
gradually made their appearance, but new
piers have sprung up in the course of the
Thames fh)m Gravesend to Richmond. Of
tliese piers, that at Hungerford is the most
remarkable, as it is erected fairly in the river ;
and on a fine summer's day, when filled with
well-dressed persons, waiting •* for their boat,"
it has a very animated appearance. A long,
wooden framework, which rises into a kind of
staircase at high water, and is a sloping plat-
form at low water, connects the pier with
Hungerfbrd-bridge. At Southwnrk and Vaux-
hall bridges the piers are constructed on the
abutments of an arch, ami a staircase conducts
the passenger to tho bridge. On the north
side of the river are, three at London-bridpr«N
one at Southwark-bridge, at Paul's-wlinrf
(Blackfriars), Temple, Anindel-street, Water-
loo-bridge, Fox-undrr-the-hill, George- street,
Adelphi, Hungerford, Pimlico, Cadogan-pier,
Chelsea, Battersea-bridge, Hammersmith, and
Kew. On the other side are, two at Rich-
mond, one at Putney, Red House, Battersea ;
Nino Elms, Lambeth, Westminster-briil*;*^,
and London-bridge. Below bridge, on the
Middlesex side, the piers are, the Tunnel,
330
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
Limehoose-hole, Brunswick, North Woolwich,
and Purfleet. On tho Surrey side there are
two piers at Gravesend, one at Rosherville,
Erith, Woolwich, East Greenwich, Greenwich,
and the Commercial-docks, Rotherhiihe.
Tho piermen at the pier belonging to the
Gravesend Diamond Company (the oldest
company now flourishing, as it was started in
June 1828), and to others of similar charac-
ter, are seven in number. At Hungerford,
however, there are eleven piermen; and
taking the steamboat-piers altogether, it mav
be sfliely said there are four men to each
on an average, or 108 men to 42 such piers.
The piermen are of three classes as regards
the rates of remuneration.
The piermaster, who is the general super-
intendent of the station, has d&«. a-week;
the others have 20«. and 2l5. These men
are not confined to any one duty; as the
man who takes the tickets from the pas-
sengers one day may assist merely in moor-
ing, or in " touting " the next — though a good
touter is not often changed. The colour of
the tickets is changed daily, unless a colour
is "run out," in which case another colour
must bo substituted until a supply can be
obtained. The majority of the piermen have
been watermen, or seamen, or m some way
connected with river work. They are, for
the most part, married men, supporting fami.
lies in tlie best manner that their means
will admit.
From a gentleman connected with a Steam-
packet Company I had tho pleasure of hearing
A very good character of these men, while by
the men themselves I was informed that they
were, as a body, fairly treated, never being dis-
niissed without reasons assigned and due
inquiry. The directors of such vessels as are
in tho hands of companies meet weekly,
and among their general business they tlien
investigate any complaints by or against tho
men, who are sometimes suspended as
night, one of the crew usually sleeps on boaid
to protect what property may be kept there,
and to guard against fire. The crew go on
board about two hours before the itami
starts, to clean her thoroughly ; the engineer
and his people must be in attendance about
that time to get the steam np ; and the etp-
tain about half-an-hour or an nour befbre the
boat leaves her mooring, to see that ererythkig
is in order.
The river-steamers generally commence ma-
ning on Good Friday or Easter Monday, and
continue until the 1st of October, or a littk
later if the weather be fine. Each steamor
carries a captain, a mate, and three men m
crew, with an engineer, a stoker, and a call-bof
— or eight hands altogether on board. Ha
number daily at work on the liTer-tteamen if
thus 552 : so that including the piermen, the
clerks, and the " odd men," between 700 aai
800 persons are employed in the steam naviga>
tion of the Thames. Calculating each veyiga
to average six miles, the extent of ateam navi-
gation on the Thames, performed daily in the
season, is no less than 8280 miles. The
captains receive from 2/. to 8/. per week ; the
mates, from dO«. to d5«. ; the crew, 25«. eaeh;
the call-boy. 7«. ; the engineer, from 8/. to 81.;
and the stokers, 30*.
The class of persons travelling by these
steamboats is mixed. The wealthier not im-
ft«quently use them for their exouisicHis up or
down the river; but the great siipport of the
boats is fh>m the middle and wofking dasaea,
more especially such of the working class (in-
cluding tlie artisans) as reside in the anburba,
and proceed by this means of conveyance to
their accustomed places of business : in all, or
nearly all, the larger steamers, a band of
music adds to the enjoyment of the paasengew;
but with this the directors of the Tesed have
nothing to do beyond giving their consent to
gratuitous conveyance of the murioians who
go upon speculation, their remuneration being
i
LONDON OMNIBUS DRIVERS AND
CONDUCTORS.
a
punishment, though such cases are unfhsquent ( what they can collect firom the passengers.
All the men employed on board the river- j
steamers are free watermen, excepting those j
working in the engine-room. In the winter i
some of them return to the avocation of water- 1
men — hiring a boat by the month or week, if
they do not possess, as many do, boats of their
own. In the course of my inquiries among
the merchant seamen, I heard not a few con-
temptuous opinions expressed of the men on
board the river-croft. There is no doubt,
however, that the captain of a nver steamer,
who is also the pilot, must have a quick and
correct eye to direct his vessel out of the crowd
of others about London-bridge, for instance,
without collision. The helmsman is fre-
quently the mate of the steamer — sometimes,
but rarely, one of the crew — while sometimes
tho captain himself relieves the mate at the
helm, and then the mate undertakes the
piloting of the vessel. During the season,
when a steam-boat is "made safe" for the
The subject of omnibus conveyance is one to
tho importance of which the aspect of eveiy
thoroughfare in London bears witness. Yet
the dweller in the Strand, or even in a greater
thoroughfare, Cheapside, can only fonn a par-
tial notion of the magnitude of this mode of
transit, for he has but a partial mw of it; ke
sees, as it were, only one of its details.
Tho routes of the several omniboaes aie
manifold. Widely apart as are their atartiiig-
points, it will be seen how their cooraea tend
to common centres, and how generally what
may be called the great trunk-lines of the
streets are resorted to.
The principal routes lie north and south)
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
g87
L west, through the central parts of
to and from the extreme suburbs.
iority of them commence running at
the morning* and continue till twelve
; succeeding each other during the
t of the day every five minutes. Most
have two charges — 3<<. for part of tJie
I snd Oif. for the whole distance.
nmibuses proceeding on the northern
them routes are principally the fbl-
Ulaaes run from the Eyre Arms, St.
food, by way of Baker-street, Oxford-
legent-street, Charing-cross, Westmin-
Ige and road, and past the Elephant
ue,by the Walworth-road, to Camber-
s. Some turn off from the Elephant
16 omnibus people call it) and go down
w Kent-road to the Dover milway-
while others run the same route, but
fipom the Nightingale, LisRon-grove,
of the Eyre Arms. The Waterloos
from the York and Albany, Kegent's-
way of Albany-street, Portland-road,
itreet, and so over Waterloo-bridge, by
edoo, London, and Walworth-roads, to
reil-gsite. The Waterloo Association
lo a branch to Holloway, viA the
Villas. There are like\«ise others
un from the terminus of the South-
. Railway in the Waterloo-road, v\&
1-street, to the railway termini on the
ode of London-bridge, and thence to
he Eastern Counties in Shoreditch.
Sungorford-markets pursue the route
mden Town along Tottenham Court-
u to Hungerford ; and many run ivom
t to Paddington.
Kentish Town run from the Eastern
B station, and from Whitechapel to
Town, by way of Tottenham Court-
lampsteads observe the like course to
. Town, and then run straight on to
ead.
EUng's-crosses run from Kennington-
the Blackfriar's-road and bridge, Fleet-
Jhanoery-lane, Gray's-inn-lsne, and the
id, to Euston-square, while some go on
len Town.
Great Northerns, the latest route
travel from Uie railway terminus,
lane, King's-cross, to the Bank and
way-stations, both in the city and
he Thames ; also to Paddington, and
Kennington.
favourites' route is from Westminster
along the Strand, Chancery-lane,
on-lane, and Coldbath-fields. to the
Islington, and thence to Holloway;
•me of them run down Fleet-street, and
the General Post-office, and thence by
-road to the Angel and to Holloway.
irourites idso run from Holloway to the
Islington and Kennington line is
from Bamsbuiy-park, by the Post-office and
Blaokfriars-bridge, to Kennington-gate.
The Camberwells go from Gracechurch-
street, over London-bridge, to Camberwell,
while a very few start from the west end of
the town, and some two or three from Fleet-
street ; the former crossing Westminster and
the latter Blackfriars-bridge, while some Nel-
sons run from Oxford-street to Camberwell or
to Brixton.
The Brixtons and Claphams go, some from
the Regent-circus, Oxford-street, by way of
Begent-street, over Westminster-bridge ; and
some from Gracechurch-street, over London-
bridge, to Brixton or Clapham, as the cose
may be.
The Paragons observe the same route, and
some of these conveyances go over Blackfriar's-
bridge to Brixton.
The Carshaltons follow the track of the
Mitchams, Tootings, and Claphams, and go
over London-bridge to the Bonk.
The Paddingtons go from the Royal Oak,
Westboume-Green, and from the Pine-apple-
gate by way of Oxford-street and Holbom to
the Bank, the London-bridge, Eastern Coun-
ties, or Blackwall railway termini ; while some
reach the same destination by the route of the
New-rood, City-road, and Finsbury. These
routes are also pursued by the vehicles lettered
"New-road Conveyance Association," and
" London Conveyance Company ;" while some
of the vehicles belonging to the same pro-
prietors run to Notting-hill, and some have
branches to St. John's Wood and elsewhere.
The Wellingtons and Marlboroughs pursue
the some track as the Paddingtons, but some
of them diverge to St. John's Wood.
The KensaJl-greens go from the Regent-
circus, Oxford-street, to the Cemetery.
The course of the Bayswaters is from Bays-
water viA Oxford-street, Regent-street, and the
Strand, to the Bank.
The Bayswaters and Kensingtons run frt)m
the Bank vid Finsbiuy, and then by the City-
road and New-road, down Portland-road, and
by Oxford-street and Piccadilly to Bayswater
and Kensington.
The Hammersmith and Kensingtons con-
vey their passengers from Hammersmith, by
way of Kensington, Knightsbridge, Piccadilly,
&G, to the Bank.
The Richmond and Hampton Courts, from
St. Paul's-churehyard to the two places in-
dicated.
The Putneys and Bromptons run from
Putney-bridge viA Brompton, &c. to the Bank
and the London-bridge railway station.
The Chelseas proceed from the Man in the
Moon to the Bank, Mile-end-road, and City
railway stations.
The Chelsea and Islingtons observe the
route from Sloane-square to the Angel, Isling-
ton, travelling along Piccadilly, Regent-street,
Portland-road, and the New-road.
The Royal Blues go from Pimlico viA
d89
hOVDOS LABOUB JND Tii£ tOKDON POOB.
GrosTenor-gsfta, Piccadilljr, the Strand, &c to
the Blackwall railway station.
The direction of the Pimliooa is throngh
Westminster, Whitehall, Strand, &e. to White-
chapel.
The Marqness of Westminsters follow the
rente Arom the Vanxhall-hridge viA Millbank,
Westminster Ahhey, the Strand, &c. to the Bank.
The Deptibrds go from Oracechurch-street,
and over London-bridge, and some from
Charing-cross, over Wostminster-bridge, to
Deptford.
The rente of the Nelsons is from Charing,
cross, over Wcstminster-bridge, and by the
New and Old Kent-roads to Deptford, Green-
wich, and Woolwich; some go from Grace-
church-street, over London-bridge.
The Shoreditchas pnrsne the direction of
Chelsea, Piccadilly, tlio Strand^ ise, to Shore-
ditch, their starting-place being Battersea-
bridge.
The Hackneys and Claptons ran from Ox-
ford-street to Clapton-square.
Barber's ran from the Bank, and some from
Oxford-stroet, to Clapton.
The BUckwalls ran some from Sloane-etreet
to tho Docks, and the Bow and Stratfords
from different parts of the West-end to their
respective destinations.
I have enumerated these several conveyances
frt>m the information of persons connected
with the trade, using the tenns they used,
which bett4*r disUnguish tiie respective routes
than the names lettered on the carriages, whicli
would but puzzle the reader, the principal
appellation giving no intimation of tlie des-
tinstion of the omnibus.
Tho routes nbove specified are pursued by
a series of vehicles belonging to one company
or to one firm, or one individual, the number
of their vehicles varying from twelve to fifty.
One omnibus, however, continues to run from
the Bank to Finchloy, and one frxsm the Angel
to Hampton Court.
The total number of omnibuses traversing
the streets of London is about 8000, paying
dut^' including mileage, averaging 0/. per month
each, or 3ii4,000/. per annum. The number
of conductors and drivers is about 7000 (in-
cluding a thousand **odd men," — a term that
will be explained hereafter), paying annually
•Vt. each fen* their licenses, or llbOL collec-
tively. Tlio receipts of each Tehicle vary from
;!/. to 4/. per day. Estimating the whole 3000
at 8/., it follows that the entire sum expended
annually in omnibus hire by the people of
London amounts to no less than 8,285,000/.,
Avliich is more than 80«. a-head for eveiy man,
woman, and child, in the metropolis. Tlio
average journey as regards length of each
omnibus is six miles, and that distance is in
some cases travelled twelve times a-day by
each omnibus, or, as it is called, ** six there
and six back." Some perform the journey
only ten times a-day (each omnibus), and
some, but a minority, a leas number of times.
Now taking the average as between fort
and fifty xmles a-day, travelled by each
bus, and that I am assured on the
authority is within the mark, while sizty
a-day might exceed it, and computin
omnibuses running daily at 8000, we fii
travel," as it was worded to me, jspwtk
140,000 miles a-day, or a yearly travel oi
than 60/)00,000 of miles : an extent tl
most defies a parallel among any dis
popularly familiar. And that this estia
no way exceeds the truth is proved by th
annually paid to the Excise for "adl
which, as before stated, amounts on an «
to 91. each ** bus," per month, or, ecUae
to 324,000/. per annum, and this at 1^
mile (tiie rate of duty chaigod) givea 01^
miles as the distance traveUed by tba
number of omnibuses eveiy year.
On each of its journeys experienced p
have assured me an omnibus camea 4
average fifteen persons. Neariy allaxolii
to carry twenty-two (thirteen inside an
out), and that number |>erha]>8 is mam
exceeded, while fifteen is a fair compst
for §s every omnibus has now the two
Sd, and G</., or, as the busmen call
*' long uns and short uns," there are t«
of passengers, and the number of J
throuc^ the whole distance on each jc
of the omnibus is, as I liave said, a fail
putation: for sometimes the vehiele is i
empty, as a set-off to its being damn
other times. This computation whom
daily " travel," reckoning ten jouxneys
of 450,000 passengers. Thus we mig
led to believe that about one-fourth the <
population of the metropdis and its ad
men, women, and children, the inaal
hospitals, gaols, and workhouaee, pei
peers, and their families all indnded,
daily travelling in omnibuses. But ii
be borne in mind, that as most oo
travellen use that convenient mode ei
veyance at least twice a-day, we may ooi
the number of indiriduals at 226;000, <
lowing tliroe jonraeys as an average
travel, at 150,000. Calculating the pq
of each passenger at 4^., and ao allovB
tlic set-off of the " short uns" to the *
uns," we have a daily reoeq»t for on
fares of 8,480/., a weekly receipt ci 56,
and a yearly receipt of 2,008,650/.; wh
will be seen is several thoosands k«
the former estimate: so that it may be i
assured, that at least tliree miUiona of a
is annually expended on omnibus ftit
London.
The extent of individual travel perfio
by some of the omnibus drivers is enon
One man tdd me that he had drivn
** bus " seventy-two nules (twelve stages «
miles) eveiy day for six years, with th
ception of twelve miles leas evoy ai
Sunday, so that this man had driven i
years 170,666 miles.
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON FOOS.
830
Obioin of Omnibuses.
This THst extent of omnibas transit has
been the growth of twenty years, as it was not
until the 4th July, 1820, that Mr. Shillibeer,
now the proprietor of the patent mourning
eoiches, stoited the first omnibus. Some
works of authority as books of reference,
have represented that Mr. Shillibeer's first
omnibus ran from Charing-cross to Green.
wish. Mid that the charge for outside and
indde plaees was the same. Such was not
the case; the first omnibus, or rather, the
fiitt pair of tliose yehides (for Mr. Shillibeer
started two), ran from the Bank to the York-
shire Stingo. Neither could the charge out
ad in be the some, as there were no outside
passengers. Mr. SbilUbeer was a naval officer,
tod in his youth stepped ftom a midshipman's
duties into the business of a coach-builder,
he learning that business from the late Mr.
Eitchett, ^ Long Acre. Mr. Shillibeer then
established himself in Paris as a builder of
English esiriages, a demand for which had
sprang up after the peace, when the current
of English travel was directed strongly to
France. In this speculation Mr. ShiJilibeer
vts eminently successful. He built carriages
for Prince Polignac, and others of the most
influential men under the dynasty of the elder
branch of the Bourbons, and had a bazaar for
the sale ofliis vehicles. He was thus occu-
pied in Palis in 1810, when M. Lafitto first
gtarted the omnibuses which ore now so
common and so well managed in the French
ei|ntal. Lafitte was the banker (afterwards
the minister) of Louis Philippe, and the most
active man in establishing the Messagerics
Boysles. Five or ax years after the omni-
buses had been successfully introduced into
Paris* Mr. Shillibeer was employed by M.
Lafitte to build two in a superior style. In
executing this order, Mr. Shillibeer thought
that so comfortable and CGonomicnl a mode of
conveyance might be advantageously intro-
duced in London. He accordingly disposed
of his Parisian establishment, and come to
London, and started his omnibus as I have
narrated. In order that the introduction might
have eveiy chan<;ft of success, and have the
fWl prestige of respectability, Mr. Shillibeer
Inrought over with him from Paris two youths,
both the sons of British naval officers ; and
these young gentlemen were for a few weeks
his ** conductors." They were smartly dressed
in " blue doth and togs," to use the words of
iny informant, after the fashion of Lafitte*s con-
ductors, each dress costing 5/. Their address-
ing any foreign passenger in French, and the
I'rench style of the afikir, gave rise to an
opinion that Mr. Shillibeer was a Frenchman,
and that the English were intlebted to a fo-
reigner for the improvement of their vehi<;ular
transit, whereas Mr. Shillibeer had served in
the British navy, andwus bom in Tottenham-
court-road. His speculation was particuloi-ly
and at once successful. His two vehicles
carried each twenty-two, and were filled every
journey. The form was that of the present
omnibus, but larger and roomier, as the
twenty-two were all accommodated inside, no-
body being outside but the driver. Three
horses yoked abreast were used to draw these
carriages.
There were for many days, until the novelty
wore olf, crowds assembled to see the omni-
buses start, and many ladies and gentlemen
took their places in them to the Yorkshire
Stingo, in order that they might have the
pleasure of ridinp: back again. The fare was
one shilling for the whole and sixpence for
half the distance, and each omnibus mado
twelve journeys to nnd fro every day. Thus
Mr. Shillibeer established a diversity of fares,
regulated by distance; a regulation which was
afterwards in a great measure abandoned by
omnibus proprietors, and then re-established
on our present threepenny and sixpenny pay-
ments, the "long uns" and the "short uns."
Mr. Shillibeer's receipts were 100/. a-week.
At first he provided a few books, chiefly maga-
zines, for the perusal of his customers ; but
this peripatetic library was discontinued, for
the customers (I give the words of my in-
formant) "boned the books." When the
yoimg - gentlemen conductors retired from
their posts, they were succeeded by persons
hired by Mr. Shillibeer, and liberally paid,
who were attired in a sort of velvet livery.
Many weeks had not elapsed before Mr. Shilli-
beer found a falling off in his receipts, although
he ascert.iined that there was no falling oflf in
the public supi>ort of his omnibuses. He ob-
tained information, however, that the persons
in his employ robbed him of at least 20/. a-week,
retaining that sum out of the receipts of the two
omnibuses, and that they had boasted of their
cleverness and their lucrative situations at a
champagne supper at the Yorkshire Stingo.
This necessitated a change, wliich Mr. ShiUi-
beer effected, in his men, but without prose-
cuting the otfenders, and still it seemed that
defalcations continued. That they continued
was soon shown, and in " a striking manner,"
fls I was told. As an experiment, Mr.
Shillibeer expended 300/. in the construction
of a macliine fitted to the steps of an omnibus
wliich should record the number of passen-
gers as they trod on a plate in entering and
leaving the vehicle, arranged on a similar
principle to the tell-tales in use on our toll-
bridges. The inventor, Mr. , now of
Woolwich, liimself worked the omnibus con-
taining it for a fortnight, and it' supplied a
correct index of the number of passengers :
but at the fortnight's end, one evening after
dark, the inventor was hustled aside while
waiting at the Yorkshire Stingo, and in a
minute or two the machine was smashed by
some unkuoiMi men with sledge-hammers.
Mr. Shillibeer then had recourse to the uso
No. LXXIV.
I) A)
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
t)f tiuch clocks 09 were used in the French
oninibiisos m a check. It was publicly notified
thnt it was the business of tlic conductor to
mwve the hand of the clock a given distance
^liiMi a passenger entcn^d the vehicle, hut
thi^ plan did not succeed. It is common in
rrnncc for a passenger to inform the pro-
piietor of any neglect on the part of his
f.( rvant, hut Mr. Shillibeer never received any
%\\c\\ intimation in London.
In the meantime Mr. Shillibeer's Fiucccss
cj.ntinued. for he insured punctuality and
cinlity; and tlio cheapness, cleanliness, and
smartness of his omnibuses, were in most
advantapoous contrast 'with the liigh chM^es,
dirt, din^inesM, and rudeness of the drivers
of many of the " short stages." The
short -stage proprietors were loud in their
railings against what they were pleased to
describe as a French innovation. In the
course of from six to nine months Mr. Sliilli-
beer had twelve omnibuses at work. Tlie
new omnibuses ran from the Dank to Pa<l.
din«.'ton, both by the route of Uolbom and
Oxfonl-street, as well as by Finsbury and the
N<.".v - road. Mr. Shillibeer feels convinced,
that hiul he started fifty omnibuses instead of
two in the first instance, a fortune might have
been realised. In 1881-2, his omnibuses
becjinie general in the great street thorough-
fares ; and as the short stages were run ofif
the road, the proprietors started omnibuses in
op]>oviti<ni to Mr. Shillibeer. The first omni-
buses, how<ivcr, started after Mr. Shilliliecr's
weit> not in opposition. They were the Cale-
donians, and were the property of Mr. ShilU-
beer's brother-in-law. The third startetl, which
were two-horse vehicles, were foolishly enough
called "Lcs Dames Blanches;** but as the
namo gave rise to much low wit in Equivoques
it was abandoned. The original omnibuses
wen? calb'd " Shillibeers " on the panels, from
Uk* n:ime of their originator; and the name is
still prevalent on tliose conveyances in New
York, which afibrds us another proof that not
in his own country' is a benefacrtor honoured,
until perhaps his death makes honour as
little worth as an epitaph.
The opposition omnibuses, however, con-
tinned to increase as more and more short
stages were a1>andoncd; and one oppositionist
called his omnibuses **Shillib<'ers/* so that the
real and the sham Shillibeers were known in
the streets. The opposition became fiercer.
The " busses," as they came to be called in a
year or two, crossed each other and raced or
drove their jwles recklessly into the back of
cue another; and accidents and squabbh^s
and loitering grew so frequent, and tlie time
of the police magistrates was so much occupied
with " omnibus business." that in 1832 the
matter was mentioned in Parliament as a ntd-
s:\nce requiring a remedy, and in 1^30 a Bill
was brought in by the Government and passed
for the ** T^egulation of Onmibuses (as well as
other conveyances) in and near the metropo-
lis." Two sessions after, Mr. Alderman Wood
brought in a bill for the better regulation of
omnibuses, which was also passed, and one of
the prorisions of the bill was that Uie drivers
and conductors of omnilmaes shoTild Im!
licensed. The office of Registrar of Licenses
was promised by a noble lord in office to Mr.
Shillibeer Tas I am informed on good autho-
rity), but the appointment was given to the
present Commissioner of the City Police, and
the office next to the principal was offered to
Mr. Shillibeer, which Uiat gentleman dedined
to accept The reason assigned for not ap.
pointing him to the registrarship was that he
was connected with omnibuses. At the be-
ginning of 1834, Sir. Shillibeer abandoned bis
metropolitan trade, and began ninning omni-
buses from London to Greenwich and Wool-
wich, employing 20 carriages and 120 horses;
but the increase of steamers and the opening
of the Greenwich RaOway in 18.35 affected hii
trade so materially, that Mr. Shillilieer fell
into arrear with his payments to the Stamp
Office, and seizures of his property and re-
seizures after money was paid, entailed snch
heavy expenses, and such a hindrance to Mr.
Shillibeer's business, that his failure ensued.
I have l>een thus somewhat faU, in my
detail of Mr. Shillibeer's career, as his proce-
dures are, in truth, the histoiy of the transit
of the metropolis as regards omnibases. I
conclude this portion of ^e snbject with the
following extracts frx>m a pariiamentary paper,
** Supplement to the Votes and Proeeedingt,
Veneris, 7® die Julii, 1843,** containing the
petition of George Shillibeer.
'* That in 1840, and after several yean
of incessant application, the Lords of tlie
Treasniy caused Mr. Gordon, their then
financial secretary, to enquire into your peti-
tioner's case ; and so frilly satisfied was that
gentleman with the hardships and cruel wrongs
which the department of Stamps and Taxes
had inflicted upon your petitioner, that he
(Mr. Gordon) promised, on behalf of the
Lords of the Treasury, early redress should
be granted to your petitioner, either by a
Government appointment adequate to the loss
ho had sustained, or pecuniary compensation
for the injustice which, upon a thorough in-
vestigation of the facts, Mr. Gordon assured
your petitioner he had fuUy established, to the
satisfaction of the Lords of the Treasunr.
** That in proof of the sincerity of Mr.
Gordon, he, in his then official capacity of
secretary to the said Lords of her Migesty**
Treasury, applied, in April 1841, to the then
heads of two Government di^artments, viz.
the Marquess of Normanby and the Bight
Hon. Henry Laboucherc, to appoint your pe-
titioner * Inspector General of Public Cjtf-
riages,* or some appointment in the Railway
department at the Board of Trade ; but these
applications l>eing unsuccessful, Mr. Gordon
applied and obtained for your iietitioner the
proniise of one of the twenty-five app<nntxnentj
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LOS DON i*OOR,
811
of Reeeiyer-General of County Courts (testi-
moniiils of your petitioner's fitness beinp: at
the Treaspr)'), the bill for establisliing wliich
was then in 2>rogress through Parliament.
** That shortly after youi* petitioner's claims
had been admitted, and redress promised by
the Lords of the Treasury, Mr. Gordon re-
signed his situation of secretary, and on tlie
Otih May, 1841, your petitioner again saw Mr.
Gordon, who assm^ed your petitioner that but
for the fact of the miscellaneous estimates
bein^ made up and passed for tliat year, yoiu*
petitioner's name should have been placed in
them for a grant of 5000/., further observing
that your petitionei-'s was a case of very great
I hunlship and injustice, and assuring your
! petitioner that he (Mr. Gordon) would not
quit the Treosuxy without stating to his sue-
I eeasor that your petitioner's caso was one of
peculiar severity', and desened imniodiaU^ at-
tention and redress."
And so the matter remains virtuidi y tit an end.
1 will now give the regulations and statistics
of the French omnibuses, which I am enabled
to do thit>ugh the kindness of u gtrntlenum to
whom I am indebted for much valuable infor-
mation.
As the regulations of the French laiblic
ctmveyances (des voUurcs faisaut le transport
tncommuft) are generally considered to liave
worked admirably well, I present a digest of
(hem. The earlier enactments provide for the
numbering of the conveyances and for the
licensing of all connected with thoin.
The laws which provide the royulations are
of the following dates : I enumerate them to
( nbow how closely the French Government has
I attended to Uie management of hired vehicles.
Dec. 14, 1780; Aug. 14, 1700; 0 Vendemiaire,
An VI. (Sep. 80, 1707) ; 11 Friniaire, An
Ml. (Dee. 1, 1798) ; 12 Messidor, An VIII.
(July 1, 1800; 3 Bniraaire, An IX. (Oct.
20, 1800); Dec. 30, 1818; July 2.>. 18>0 ;
Aug. 1, 1820; March 20, 1830; Sep. 1">,
1838, and Jan. 5, 1846. The 471st, 474th,
470th, and 484th Articles of the Tenal Code
also i-elate to this subject.
The piincipal regulations now in force are
the following : —
Tlie proprietors of all public conveyances
(for hire) shall be numbered, licensed, and
find such security as shall be satisfactory to
the autliorities. Every proprietor, before he
can change the locality of his establishment.
is bound to give forty-eight hours' notice of
his intention to remove. The sale of such
establisliinents can only be effected by un-
dertakers (eHtrepreneur$)y duly authorised
for the purpose; and the privilege of the
undertaker is not transferable, either wholly
or partially, without the sanction of the
authorities. The proprietors cannot employ
any conductors, drivers, or porters, but such
as have a license or pennit (permi* de con-
duire, 5cc). Neither can a master retain or
transfer any such permit if the holder of it
have left his sen-ice; it must be given up
within twenty- four hours at the prefecture
(chief office) of police, and the date of the
man's entering and leaving his employ must
be inscribed by his late master on the back of
the document. Proprietors must keep a register
of the names and abodes of their ilrivers and
conductors, and of their numbers as entered
in the books of the prefecture ; aUo a daily
entry of the numbers of the vehicles in use, as
engraved on the plates alKxed to th«-Hi, and a
record of the conduct of tlie men to wliom
they have been entrusted. No proprietor to be
allowed to employ a di-iver or conductor whose
permit through ill-conduct or any cause has
been withdrawn. In case of the contravention
of tliis regulation by any one, the I'lying (/a
circulation) of his cmrioge is to be stopped,
eitlicr temporarily or definitely. No carriage
shall be entnisted to either driver or con-
ductor, if either be in a state of evident un-
cleanUness (malproprete). No horse known to
be vicious, disease^!, or incapable of work, is to
bo employed.
The couductoi's iu:e to maintain order in
their v(>hieles, and to observe that the passen-
gci*s place themselves so as not to incom-
mode one another. They are not to take
more persons tlian they ai'e authorised to
convey, which number must be notified in the
interior and on the exterior of the omnibus.
They are also forbidden to admit individuals
who may be drunk, or clad in a manner to
disgust or annoy the other passengers ; neither
must they admit dogs, or suifer persons who
may drink, sing, or smoke to remain in tlie
carriages; neither must they carry pai-cels
which, from their size, or the nature of their
contents, may incommode the passengers.
Conductors must not give the coachman the
word to go on until each passenger leaving the
omnibus shall have quitted the footstep, or
until each passenger entering the omnibus
shall have been seated. Every person so
entering is to bo asked where he wishes to be
set down. All property left in tlie omnibus
to be conveyed to the prefecture of police. It
is, moreover, the conductor's business to light
the carriage lamps after night-fall.
The drivers, before they can be allowed
to exercise their profession, must produce
testimoniids as to their possessing the ne-
cessaiy skill. They are not to gfidlop their
horses under any circumstances whatever.
They are required, moreover, to drive slowly,
or at a widk {uupas), in the markets and in the
narrow streets where only two carriages can
pass abreast, at the descent of the bridges,
and ui all parts of the public ways wher«
there may be a stoppage or a rapid slope.
Wherever the width of the streets permits it,
the omnibus must be driven ot least three feet
from the houses, where there is no footpath
(froUoir); and where th^re is a footpath, two feet
from it They must, as much as possible, keep
the wheels of their vehicle out of the gutters.
342
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
No driver or condactor can exercise his
profession under the age of eighteen; and be-
fore being authorised to do so, he must show
that his morals and trustworthiness are such
as to justify his appointment. (The ordon-
nance then provides for the licensing, at the
coKt of 70o., of these officers, by the police, in
the way I have already described.) They arc
not permitted to smoko while at their work,
Dor to take off their coats, even during the
tultriost weather. The omnibuses ore to pull
up on the right-hand side of the street ; but if
there be any hindrance, then on the left.
The foregoing regulations (the infractions of
which are punishable through the ordinazy
tribunals) do not materially differ from those
of our own country, though they may be more
stringently enforced. The other provisions,
however, are materially different. The Frencii
Ooyemment Axes the amount of fare, pre.
scribes the precise route to be observed and
the time to be kept, and limits the number of
omnibuses. On the 12th August, 1840, th«y
were 387 in number, running alonff 30 Unea,
which are classed under the head of li nrates
{enlreprUea), in the following order:—
BoutM.
No. of Lines.
Ko. of
Carriages.
Nos.aeDOidiiig
totheUowMc
1 Omnibus Orl^anoisos
and Diligentea ....
2 Dames r^imics ....
3 Tricyles
1 '»
8
1
4
a
2
9
2
8
1
2
1
131
20
11
47
19
13
10
30
33
12
13
8
1 to 151
132 to 180
181 to 191
102 to 288
230 to 237
2.^8 to 270
271 to 280
200 to 319
320 to 332
333 to 304
303 to 870
380 to 387
4 Favoritos
3 B^amaises
0 Citadinos
7 U align olios — «^zelles
8 Hirondelles
0 Parisiennes
10 ConstAu tines
11 Excellcntes
12 Gauloises
30
887
In order to prevent the inconvenience of
too rijfidly defined routes, a system of inter-
com nnmication has been cstnblishod. At a
given point {bureau den correspondancfi), a
passonger may always be transferred to another
omnibus, the conductor giving him a free
ticket; and so may roncli his destination, or
the nearest point to it, from any of the start-
ing-places. This system now exists, but very
piulially, on some of the London lines.
The number conveyed by a l*arisian omni-
bus is fixed at 10 ; each vehicle is to be drawn
by two horses, and is to unite ** all the con-
ditions of soUdity, commodiou^ness, and ele-
panco that may be desirable/' In order to
ensure these conditions, the French Govern-
ment directs in what manner every omnibus
shall l>o built. Those built prior to the pro-
mulgation of the ordonnanc^ (Aug. 12, 1840),
regulating the construction of these vehicles,
are still allowed to bo "in circulation ; " but
after the 1st of January, 1832, no omnibus not
constructed in exact accordance with the do-
tails laid down will be allowed '* to circulate."
The height of the omnibus is fixed, as well as
the length and the width ; the circumference
of the wheels, the adjustment of the springs,
ihe hanging of the body, the formation of too
ventilators, the lining and cushioning of the
interior, the dimensions of the footsteps, and
the disposition of tlie lamps, which are thiee
in number.
The arrangements, where a footpath is not
known in the streets of Paris, and a gutter is
in existence, are tolerably significant of dis-
tinctions between the streets of the French
and English capitals.
I shall now pass to the consideration of tbe
English vehicles as they are at present ooo-
ducted.
Omkibus Psopbieto&s.
The << labourers" immediately oonneeted
with the trade in omnibuses are the propos-
tors, drivers, conductors, and time-jLeejMfs-
Tlioso less immediately but still in connexion
with the trade are the ** odd men " and the
horsekeepers.
The earlier history of omnibus propneton
presents but a series of stru^les and minoos
lawsuits, one proprietor with another, notil
many were ruined ; and then several opposed
companies or individuals coalesced or *^^'
and these proprietaries now present a uniieuf
and, I believe, a prosperous body. They poe-
sess in reality a monopoly in omnibus coo-
veyance ; but I am assured it would not he
easy under any other plan to serve the puUi^
better. All the proprietors of omnibuses wi9
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
348
be said to be in union, as thej act systemati-
eally and by arrangement, one proprietary with
another. Their profits are, of course, ap-
portioned, like those of other joint-stock com-
panies, according to the number of shares
held by individual members. On each route
one member of the proprietary is appointed
('* directed ") by his co-proprietors. The di-
rectory may be classed as the ** executive de-
portment*' of the body. The director cun
(Usplar« a diiver on a week's notice : but by
gome directors, who pride themselves on deal-
ing summarily, it seems that the week's notice
i>» now and then dispensed with. The con-
ductor lie can displace at a day's notice. The
"04M men" sometimes supply the jilaces of
thi> officitils so discharged until a meeting of
the ]»roprietary, held monthly for the most
part, when now officers arc appointed; there
bi'iug always an abundance of applicants, who
senil or carry in testimonials of their fitness
from persons known to the proprietors, or
known to reside on the line of the route. The
director may indeed appoint either driver or
conductor at his discretion, if he see good
reason to do so. The driver, however, is
generally appointed and paid by the proprie-
tor, while the conductor is more particularly
the servant of the association. The proprie-
taries have so far a monopoly of the road, that
they allow no new omnibuses to be started
upon it. I f a speculator should be bold enough
to start new conveyances, the pre-existing pro-
prietaries put a greater number of conveyances
OB the route, so that none are well filled;
and one of the old proprietaries' vehicles im-
mediately precedes the omnibus of the specu-
lator, ana another immediately follows it ; and
thus three vehicles are on the ground, which
may yield only customers for one : hence, as
the whole number on the route has been
largely increased, not one omnibus is well
fdled, and the speculator must in all probability
be mined, while the associated proprietors
suffer but a temporary loss. So well is this
now underatood, that no one seems to think
«f embarking his money in tho omnibus trade
unless he " buys his times," that is to say,
unless he arranges by purchase ; and a " now
man" will often pay 400/. or 500/. for his
" tunes," to have the privilege of running his
vehicles on a given route, and at given periods ;
in other words, for the privilege of becoming a
recognised proprietor.
The proprietors pay their servants ftiirly, as
f^ general rule ; while, as a universal rule,
they rigidly exact sobriety, punctuality, and
<^leanliness. Their great difficulty, all of them
<?onnur in stating, is t^ ensure honesty. Every
proprietor insists upon the excessive difficulty
of tnisting men with uncounted money, if the
Tiipn feel there is no efficient check to ensure
to their employers a knowledge of the exact
nmount of their daily receipts. Several plans
liave been resorted to in order to obtain the
ilesired check. Mr. Shillibeer's I have already
given. One plan now in practice is to engage
a well-dressed woman, sometimes accompanied
by a child, and she travels by the omnibus ;
and immediately on leaving it, fills up a paper
for the proprietor, showing the number of
insidos and outs, of short and long fiures.
This method, however, does not ensure a
thorough a<^ciiracy. It is difficult for a woman,
who must take such a place in the vehicle as
she can ^aX^ to ascertain the precise number of
ontsidtfs and tlieir respective lares. So diffi-
ctdt, that I am assured such a person has
returned a smalkr number than was actually
conveyed. One gentlemnn who was formerly
an omni!)us proprietor, told me ho employed a
'• lodyliko," and, as ho believed, trusty woman,
as a '* check;'* but by some means tho con-
ductors found out tlio calling of the "lady-
like ■' womau, treated her, and she made very
favourable returns for the conductors. An-
other lady was observed by a conductor, who
bears an excellent character, and who men-
tioned the circumstance to me, to carry a
small bag, from which, whenever a passenger
got out, she drew, not very deftly it would
seem, a bean, and placed it in one glove, as
lathes carry their sixpences for the fare, or a
pea, and placed it in the other. This process,
the conductor felt assured, was " a check ;"
that the beans indicated tlio " long uns," and
the peas the "short uns:'' so, when the
uuhapi)y woman desired to be put down at the
bottom of Cheapside on a wintry evening, he
contrived to land her in tho very thickest of
the mud, handing her out with great polite-
ness. I may here observe, before I enter
upon the subject, that the men who have
maintained a character for integrity regard
tho checks with great bitterness, as they
naturally feel more annoyed at being sus-
pected than men who may be dishonestly in-
clined. Another conductor once foimd a me-
morandum-book in his omnibus, in which were
regularly entered the " longs " and " shorts.'*
One proprietor told me he had once em-
ployed religious men as conductors; "but,"
said he. " tiiey grew into thieves. A Method-
ist parson engaged one of his sons to me^
it's a good while ago — and was quite indig-
nant that I ever made any question about the
young man's honesty, as ho was strictly and
religiously brought up ; but he tinned out one
of the worst of the whole batch of them.'*
One check resorted to, as a conductor informed
me, was found out by them. A lady entered
the omnibus carrying a brown- paper parcel,
loosely tied, and making a tear on the edge of
the paper for every "short" passenger, and a
deeper tear for every " long." This difficulty
in finding a check where an indefinite amount
of money passes through a man's hands — and
I am by no means disposed to undervalue the
difficulty — has led to a summary course of
procedure, not unattended l)y serious evils.
It appears that men are now discharged sud-
denly, at a moment's notice, and with no
tiU
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
reason assigned. If a reason be demanded,
tlio answer is, ** You are not wanted any
longer.** Probably, the discharge is on ac-
count of the man's honesty being suspected.
But whether the suspicion be well founded or
! unfounded, the consequences are equally
serious to the individual discharged ; for it is
i a rule observed by the proprietors not to em-
I ploy any man discharged from another line.
He will not be employed, I am assured, if ho
can produce a good character ; and even if the
"' 'bus he worked " had been discontinued as
no longer required on that route. New men,
who arc considered imconnected with all versed
in omnibus tiicks, are appointed ; and this
course, it was intimated to me very strongly,
was ogreeable to the proprietors for two
reasons — as widely extendhig their patron-
age, and as always placing at their command
a largo body of unemployed men, whose ser-
vices can at any time be called into requisition
at reduced wages, should ** slop-drivers " be
desirable. It is next to impossible, I was
further assured, for a man discharged from on
omnibus to obtain other employ. If the
director goes so far as to admit that he has
nothing to allege against the man's character,
lie will yet give no reason for his discharge ;
and an inquirer naturally imputes the Tvitli-
holding of a reason to tJie mercy of the di-
rector.
Omkibus Drivers.
The driver is paid by the week. His re-
muneration is 34«. a-week on most of the
lines. On others he receives 21*. and his box
— that is, the allowance of a fare each journey
for a seat outside, if a seat bo so occupied.
In fine weather this box plan is more remune-
rative to the driver than the fixed payment of
34*.; but in wet weather he may receive
nothing fh)m the box. Tlie average then tlie
year through is only 84*. a-week ; or, perhaps,
rather more, as on some days in sultr>' weather
the driver may moke 6*., ** if the 'bus do twelve
journeys," from his box.
The omnibus drivers have been butchei's,
farmers, horsebreakers, cheesemongers, old
Btage-coachmen, broken-down gentlemen, turf-
men, gentlemen's servants, grooms, and a very
small sprinkling of mechanics. Nearly all
can read and write, the exception being do-
si.Ti}>ed to me as a singularity ; but there ore
such exceptions, and all must have produced
^'ood characters before their appointment
The minority of them are married men with
families; their residences being in all parts,
and on both sides of the Thames. I did not
hear of any of the wives of coachmen in regular
employ working for the slop • tailors. *'We
can keep our wives too respectable for that,*'
one of tbem said, in answer to my inquiry.
Their children, too, are generally sent to
school ; frequently to the national schools.
Their work is exceedingly hard, tlieir lives
being almost literally spent oo the ooach-box.
The most of them most enter " the yard** at
a quarter to eight in the morning, and must
see that the horses and carriages are in a
proper condition for work; and at half-past
eight they start on their long day*s lal>onr.
They perform ( I speak of the most frequented
lines), twelve journeys during Uie day, and
are so engaged until a quarter-past eleven it
night. Some are on their box till past mid-
night. During these hours of laboor they
have twelve '* stops ;" half of ten and half of
fifteen minutes' duration. They genendlj
breakfast at home, or at a coffee-riiop, if nn-
married men, before they start; and dine at
the inn, where the omnibus almost invariably
st(»p8, at one or other of its destinations, u
the driver be distant from Ids home at his
dinner hour, or be immorried, he arranges to
dine at the public-house ; if near, his wSb. or
one of his children, brings him his dinner in
a revered basin, some of them being provided
with hot-water plates to keep the contents
proi>erly warm, and that is usually eaten at
Uic public-house, with a pint of beer for the
accompanying beverage. The relish with
which a man who has been employed several
hours in the open air ei^joys his dinner can
easily be understood. But if his dinner is
brought to him on one of his shorter trips, he
often hears the cry before he has completed
his meal, " Time 's up !*' and he oanies the
remains of his repast to be consmned at his
next resting-place. His tea, if broitjgbt to him
by his family, he often drinks within the om-
nibus, if there be an opportunity. Some earn
their dinners witli tliem, and eat them cold.
All these men live " well ;" that is, they have
sufficient dinners of animal food ensry di^,
with beer. They are strong and healthy men,
for their calling requires both strengtii and
health. Each driver, (as well as the time-
keeper and conductor), is licensed, at a yearlj
cost to him of 0*. From a diiver I had the
following statement: —
"I have been a driver fourteen years. I
was brought up as a builder, but had friends
tliat was using horses, and I sometimes as-
sisted them in driving and grooming when I
was out of work. I got to like that sort of
work, and thought it would be better than my
own business if I could get to be connected
with a 'bus ; and I had friends, and first got
employed as a time-keeper; but Tve been a
driver for fourteen years. Tm now paid bf
the week, and not by the box. It*s a fair
pa>-ment, but we must live well. It's hard
work is mine ; for I never have any rest but a
few minutes, except every other Sunday, and
then only two hours ; that *s the time of a
journey there and back. If I was to ask leare
to go to church, and then go to work again, I
know what answer there would be — * You eas
go to church as often as you like, and we can
get a man who doesn't want to go there.'
The cattle I drive are equal to gentlemen's
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
345
carriage -hones. One I've driven five years,
and I believe she was worked five years before
I drove lier. It's very hard work for Uie
horses, but I don't know that they are over-
worked in 'bosses. The starting after stopping
is the hardest work for them ; it 's such a
terrible strain. I've felt for the poor things
on a wet night, with a 'bus fhll of big people.
I think that it 's a pity that anybody uses a
bearing rein. There 's not many uses it now.
It bears up a horse's head, and he can only go
on pulling, pulling up a hill, one way. Take
off his bearing rein, and he'll relieve the strain
on him by beuing down his head, and flinging
his w^ht on the collar to help him pulL If
a man had to carry a weight up a hill on his
back, how would he like to have his head tied
back? Perhaps you may have noticed Mr.
'8 horses pull the 'bus up Holbom Hill.
They're tightly borne up ; but then they are
veiy fine animals, fat and fine : there 's no
such cattle, perhaps, in a London 'bus — least-
ways there *8 none better — and they're borne
op for show. Now, a jib-horse won't go in a
bearing rein, and will without it. I've seen
that myself; so what can be the use of it?
It 'a just teasing the poor things for a sort of
luhion. I must keep exact time at every
place where a time-keeper's stationed. Not a
minute 's excused — ^there 's a fine for the least
delay. I can't say that it's often levied ; but
still we are liable to it If I've been blocked,
I must make up for the block by galloping ;
and if I'm seen to gallop, and anybody tells
our people, I'm called over the coals. I must
drive as quick with a thunder-rain pelting in
my £ace, and the roads in a muddle, and the
horses starting — I can't call it shying, I have
'em too well in hand, — at every flash, just as
quick as if it was a fine hard road, and fine
weather. It 's not easy to drive a 'bus ; but I
can drive, and must drive, to an inch : yes,
sir, to hidf On inch. I know if I can get my
horses' heads through a space, I can get my
sphnter-bar through. I drive by my pole,
making it my centre. If I keep it fair in the
centre, a carriage must follow, unless it's
slippery weather, and then there 's no calcu-
lating. I saw the first 'bus start in 1829. I
beard the first 'bus called a Punch-and-Judy
carriage, 'cause you could see the people inside
without a frame. The shape was about the
same as it is now, but bigger and heavier. A
'bus changes horses four or five times aday,
According to the distance. There 's no cruelty
to the horses, not a bit, it wouldn't be allowed.
I fancy that 'busses now pay the proprietors
WelL The duty was 2^^. a-mile, and now it 's
\\d. Some comiMmies save twelve guineas
a- week by the doing away of toll-gates. The
'stablishing the threepennies — the short uns
^— has put money in their pockets. I'm an
"Unmarried man. A 'bus driver never has
time to look out for a wife. Every horse in
our stables has one day's rest in every four ;
V)ut it's no rest for the driver."
Omnibus Condcciobs.
The conductor, who is vulgarly known au
the " cad," stands on a small projection at tlie
end of the omnibus ; and it is his office to
admit and set down every passenger, and to
receive the amount of fare, for which amount
he is, of course, responsible to his employers.
He is paid 4». a-day, which he is allowed to
stop out of the monies he receives. He fills
up a waybill each journey, with the number of
passengers. I find that nearly all classes have
given a quota of their number to the list of
conductors. Among them are grocers, drapers,
shopmen, barmen, printers, tailors, shoe-
makers, clerks, joiners, saddlers, coach-build-
ers, porters, town-travellers, carriers, and fish-
mongers. Unlike the drivers, the majority of
the conductors are unmarried men ; but, per-
haps, only a mere migority. As a matter of
necessity, every conductor must be able to
read and write. They are discharged more
frequently than the drivers ; but they require
good chtiracters before their appointment.
From one of them, a very intelligent man, I
had the following statement : —
**I am 85 or 30, and have been a conductor
for six years. Before that I was a lawyer's
clerk, and then a picture-dealer; but didn't
get on, though I maintained a good character.
I'm a conductor now, but wouldn't be long
behind a 'bus if it wasn't from necessity. It's
hard to get anything else to do that you can
keep a wife and family on, for people won't
have you from off a 'bus. The worst part of
my business is its uncertainty, I may be dis-
charged any day, and not know for what. If
I did, and I was accused unjustly, I might
bring my action ; but it's merely, * You're not
wanted.' I think I've done better as a con-
ductor in hot weather, or fine weather, than in
wot ; though I've got a good journey Avhcn it's
come on showery, as people was starting for or
starting from the City. I had one master,
wlio, when his 'bus came in full in the wet,
used to say, 'This is prime. Them's God
Almighty's customers ; he sent them.' I've
heard him say so many a time. We get far
more ladies and children, too, on a fine day ;
they go more a- shopping then, and of an
evening they go more to public places. I pay
over my money every night. It runs from
405. to 4/. 4a., or a little more on extraordinary
occasions. I have taken more money since
the short uns were established. One day
before that I took only 18s. There 's three
riders and more now, where there was two
formerly at the higher rate. I never get to a
public place, whether it 's a chapel or a play-
house, unless, indeed, I get a holiday, and that
is once in two years. I've asked for a day's
holiday and been refused. I was told I might
take a week's holiday, if I liked, or as long as I
lived. I'm quite ignorant of what's passing in
the world, my time 's so taken up. We only
340
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOM.
know what's going on fVom hearing people
talk in the 'bus. I never care to rend the
paper now, though I used to like it. If I have
two minutes to spare, I'd rather take a nap
than anything else. Wc know no more politics
than the backwoodsmen of America, because
we haven't time to care about it. I've fallen
asleep on my step as the "bus was going on,
und almost fallen off. I have often to put up
with insolence from vulgar fellows, who think
it fun to chaff a cad, as they call it. There 's
no help for it. Our masters won't listen to
complaints : if we are not satisfied we can go.
Conductors are a sober set of men. We must
be sober. It takes eveiy fartliing of our wages
to live well enough, and keep a wife and
family. I never knew but one t<;etotaller on
the road. lie 's gone off it now, and he looked
us if he was coing off altogether* The other
dav a teetotaller on the 'bus saw me take a
dnnk of beer, and ho began to talk to me
about its being wrong ; but I drove him mad
with argument, and the passengers took part
with me. I live one and a half mile off the
place I start from. In summer I sometimes
breakfast before I start. Li winter, I never
see my three children, only as they're in bed ;
and I never hear their voices, if they don't
wake up early. If they cry at night it don't
disturb me ; I sleep so heavy after fifteen
hours' work out in Uie air. My wife doesn't
do anything but mind the family, and that's
plenty to do with ^oung children. My busi-
ness is so uncertain. Why, I knew a con-
ductor who found he had paid Gd, short — ^he
had left it in a comer of his pocket ; and he
handed it over next morning, and was dis-
charged for that — he was reckoned a fooL
They say the sharper the man the better the
'busman. There's a great deal in understand-
ing the business, in keeping a sharp look-out
for people's hailing, and in working the time
properly. If tlie conductor 's slow the driver
can't get along ; and if the driver isn't up to
the mark the conductor's bothered. Tve
always kept time except onc«, and that was in
such a fog, that I had to walk by the horses'
heads with a link, and could hardly see my
hand that held the link; and after all I lost
my 'bus, but it was all safe and right in the
end. We're licensed now in Scotland-yard*
They're far civiller there than in Lancaster-
place. I hope, too, they'll be more particular
in granting licenses. They used to grant them
day after day, and I believe made no inquiry.
It '11 be better now. I've never been fined : if
I had I should have to pay it out of my own
pocket. If you plead ^ty it 's 5*. If not,
and it's very hard to prove that you did display
your badffe properly if the City policeman —
there's alwa^ one on the look-out for us—
swears you didn't, and summons you for that :
or, if you plead not guilty, because you weren't
guilty, you may pay 1/. I don't know of the
checks now ; but I know there are such people.
A man was discharged the other dny because
ho was accused of having returned three out
of thirteen short He offered to make oath he
was correct; but it was.of no use — he wenC
Omnibus Timcksepebs.
Akotheb dais employed in the omnibus
trade are the timekeepers. On some routfls
there are five of these men, on others fbnr.
The timekeeper's duty is to start the omnibus
at the exact moment appointed b^ the pro-
prietors, and to report any delay or irregularis
in the arrival of tlie vehicle. His ho\m m
the same as those of the driven and ooo-
ductors, but as he is stationary his work is
not so fatiguing. His remuneration is gens-
rally 21«. a week, but on some stations move.
He must never leave the spot A tbuekeepor
on Keimington Common has d8f . a week. Us
is employed 10 hours daily, and has a box (o
shelter him from the weather when it is fooL
He has to keep time for forty 'bosses. Ths
men who may be seen in the great thorou^-
fares noting eveiy omnibus that passes, sis
not timekeepers ; Uioy are employed oy Govsni-
ment, so that no omnibus may run on the lios
without paying the duty.
A timekeeper made the following statebiitt
tome: —
** I was a grocer's assbtant, but was out of
place and had a friend who got mo a time-
keeper's office. I have 21«. a week. Mineli
not hard work, but it's very tiring. You hardly
ever have a moment to csll your own. If we
only had our Sundays, like other working-
men, it would be a grand relief. It would bs
veiy easy to get an odd man to work eveiy
other Sunday, but masters care nothing about
Sundays. Some 'busses do stop ronning from
11 to 1, but plenty keep running. Sometimes
I am so tired of a night that I dare hardly
sit down, for fear I should fall asleep and lose
my own time, and that would bo to lose wj
place. I think timekeepers continue longer
in their places than the others. W^e hsTS
nothing to do with money-taldng. I'm i
single man, and get all my meals at the •^-
Inn. I dress my own dinners in the tap-room*
I have my tea brought to me from a cofise-
shop. I can't be said to have any home — just
a bed to sleep in, as I'm never ten minutss
awake in the house where I lodge."
The "odd men" are, as their name imports*
the men who are employed oocasionally, or, n
they term it, •* get odd jobs." These form a
considerable portion of the unemployed. If i
driver be ill, or absent to attend a summoiUH
or on any temporary occasion, the odd man is
called upon to do the work. For this the odd
man receives lOd, a journey, to and tro. One
of them gave me the following account >-
'* I was brought up to a stable life, and had to
shift for myself when I was 17, as my parents
died tlien. It's nine years ago. For two of
tliree years, till this few months, I drove a'bns.
I yas di^ch'iij^cd witli a week's notice, anf\
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
317
don't know for what — it's no use asking for a
iMson :^ I wasn't wanted. I've been put to
shifts since then, and almost everything's
pledged that could be pledged. I had a de-
cent stock of clothes; but they're all at my
Tmcle'a. Last week I earned 3^. ^d., the week
before 1«. 8^, but this week I shall do better,
(ay &«. I have to pay 1«. Qd. a week for my
gaxreU Im' a single man, and have nothing
but a bed left in it now. I did live in a better
place. If I didnt get a bite and sup now and
then with some of my old mates I think I
eonldnt lire at all. Mine's a wretched life,
tnd a Teiy bad trade."
Hicnanif -CoAOH and Cabuen. '
I BATB liew described the earnings and con-
ditions of the diivers and conductors of
the London omnibuses, and I proceed, in
doe order, to treat of the Metropolitan Hack-
n^«H)oach and Cabmen. In official language,
n omnibos is "a Metropolitan Stage-cariiage,"
and a *' cab** a ** Metropolitan Hackney •' one :
Um legal distinction being that the stage-
carriages porsue a given route, and the pas-
MDgers are mixed, while the iare is fixed by
the proprietor; whereas the hackney-cai-rietge
plies for hire at an appointed " stand," cariies
no one but the party hiring it, and tlie fare for
80 doing is regiuated by law. It is an ottence
for the omnibus to stand still and ply for hire,
whereas the driver of the cab is liable to bo
punished if he ply for hire while his vehicle is
moving.
According to the Occupation Abstract of
1841, the number of "Coachmen, Coach-
guards, and Postboys" in Great Britain at
that time was 14,409, of whom 13,013 were
located in England, 1123 in Scotland, 295 in
Wales, and only 138 in the whole of the
British Isles. Tho returns for the metropolis
were as follows : —
Coach, cab, and omnibus owners . 050
Coachmen, coach and omnibus
guards, and postboys . . 5428
Grooms and ostlers • . .2780
Horse-dealers and trainers . . 240
Total
. 9104
In 1831 the number of " coacho^Tiers,
drivers, grooms, ttrc," was only 1322, and the
** horse-dealers, stable, hackney-coach, or fly-
keepers," 055, or 2047 in all; so that, assuming
these returns to be correct, it follows that this
class must have increased 7027, or more Uian
quadrupled itself in ten years.
The returns since the above-mentioned
I)eriods, however, show a still more rapid ex-
tension of the class. For these I am again
indebted to the courtesy of the Commissioners
of Police, for whose consideration and assist-
ance I have again to tender my warmest
thanks.
ABETUBN OF THE NUMBER OF PERSONS LICENSED AS HACKNEY-DRIVERS,
STAGE-DRIVERS, CONDUCTORS, AND WATERMEN,
FROM THE YEARS 1843 TO 1850.
Tear.
Haoknoy Driven.
Btogo Drivers.
Couductors.
Watermen.
Total.
1843
4,027
1,740
1,854
371
8,692
1844
4,927
1.833
1,901
390
9,111
1840
6,199
1,825
1,930
303
9,317
1846
5,350
1,806
2,051
354
9,020
1847
5,109
1,830
2,009
342
9,290
1848
6,231
1,730
2,017
352
9,830
1849
6,487
1,731
2,020
376
9.019
1850*
6,114
1,403
1,484
352
8,413
Totals. .
41,050
14,023
17,332
2,899
73,804 '
By this it will be seen that tho drivers and
conducton of the metropolitan stage and
hackney carriages were in 1849 no less than
9019, whereas in 1841, including coachmen of
aU kinds, guards and postboys, there were
only 5428 in the metropolis ; so that within
the last ten years the class, at the very least,
mast have more than doubled itself.
Hackkey-Coaches and Cabs.
1 SHALL now proceed to give an account of
the rise and progress of the London hackney-
* From 1st Hsj to ith September, inclusive.
cabs, as well as the decline and fall of the
London hackney-cosuihes.
Nearly all the writers on the subject state
that hackney-coaches were first established in
London in 1025 ; that they were not then sta-
tioned in the streets, but at the principal inns ,
and that their number grew to be considerable
after the Restoration. There seems to be no
doubt that thcso conveyances wcro first kept
at the inns, and sent out when required — as
poet-chaises were, and are still, in country
towns. It may very well be doubted, however,
whether the year 1025 has been correctly fixed
upon as that in which hackney-carriages were
348
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
esUblished in London. It is so asserted in
Mocpherson's ** Annals of Commerce," but it is
thus loosely and vaguely stated : " Our histori-
oj(rnpher3 of the city of I/ondon relate that it
was in this year (1(1*25) that hackney-coaches
In-st began to ply in London streets, or rather
at the inns, to be called for as they aio wanted ;
and tiiey were, at this time, only twenty in
number." One of the City " historiographers,''
however, if so he may be called, makes a very
ditfercnt statement. John Taylor, the water-
man and th<^ watcr-poet, says in KWl (two
yeai-s before the em usually assigne«l), *• 1 do
not inveigh against any coaches that belong to
jiersons of worth and quality, but only against
the caterpillar swarm of hirelings. They have
undone my jKwr trade, whereof I aju a mem-
ber; and though 1 liK)k for no reformation,
yet I expect the benefit of an old i)roverb,
• Give the losers leave to speak.' . . . This in-
fernal swarm of tnulespellei-s (hackney-coach-
men) have so ovemui the land tliat we can
get no living upon the water ; for 1 dare truly
afiimi that in every day in any term, eKpeciall>
if the Court be at Nvhitehidl, tliey do rob us of
our linngs, and carry WK) fares daily from us."
Of the establishment of hackney-coach
'^stands/' we have a more precise account.
The Rev. Mr. Oan*ard, writing to Jjord Statford
in I0H8, says, ** Hero is one Ca])tain Baily, he
hath been a sea-captain but now Uvhs on land,
about this city, where he tries experiments.
Ue hath erected, according to his ability,
some fonr hackney-coaches, put his men in
livery, and appointed them to stand at the
Maypole in the Strand, giving them instruc-
tions at what rate to carry men into several
parts of the town, whtTC all day Uiey may be
had. Other hackney-men, seeing this way,
they flocked to the same ])lace, and perform
the journeys at the same rate. So that some-
times there is twenty of them together, which
disperse up and down, that they and otliers
are to be had everywhere, as watemien are to
be had at the water-side. Everybody is much
pleased with it." The site of tho Maypole
that once " o'erlooked the Strand,'* is now oc-
cupied by St. Mary's church.
There were after this many regulations
passed for the better management of hackney-
coaches. In 1052 tiieir number was ordered
to be limited to 200; in lOW, to 300; in 1«01,
to 400 ; in 1094, to 700. These limitations,
however, seem to have been but little re-
garded. Ciarrard, writing in 1038, says, " Here
is a proclamation coming forth about the
refonnation of hackney-coaches, and ordering
of other coaches about London. One thou-
sand nine hundred was tho number of hack-
ney-coaches of London, bare lean jades, un-
worthy to be seen in so bravo a city, or to
stand about a king's court." As within the
last twenty-soven years, when cabs and omni-
buses were unknown, the number of hackney-
carriages was strictiy limited to 1200, it seems
little likely that nearlv two centuries earlier
there should have been so many as 1900. Jt
is probable that "glass" and "hackney-
coaches" had been confounded somehow in
the enumeration.
It was not until the ninth year of Queen
Anne's reign that an Act was passed appoint-
ing Commissioners for the licensing and su*
perintending of hackney-coachmen, l^rior to
that they seem to have been regulated and
licensed by the magistracy. The Act of Anne
authorised the number of hackney-coaches to
be increased to H(K), but not until the expira-
tion of the existing licenses in 1715. In 1771
there was again an additional number of
hackney-coach licenses granted — 1000; which
was made 1200 in 17U9. In the last -men-
tioned year a duty was for the first time
placed on hired carriages of all deseriptions.
It was at first f>s. a- week, but that som was
not long after raised to 10s. a-weck, to be paid
in ailrance ; while the license was raised from
2/. 10<. to f)/. The duties upon all hackney-
carriages is still maintained at the advanced
rat«'.
The hackney-carriages, when thmr number
became considerable after the Bestoratioa,
were necessarily small, though drawn by two
horses. The narrowness of the stiieets before
the great fire, and the wretched condition of
tho pavement, rendered the use of large and
commodious vehicles impossible. Davenant
says of hackney-carriages, " They are unusually
hung, and so narrow that I took them for
sedans ow wheels." The hackney-coachman
then rode one of his horses, postilion-fiuhion ;
but when the streets were widened, he drove
from his seat on the box. In the latter dajs
of London hackney-coaches they were large
enough without being commodious. They
were nearly all noblemen's and gentlemen's
disused family coaches, which had been handed
over to the coachmaker when a new carriage
was made. But it was not long that these
<:oache8 retained the comfort and cleanhness
that might distinguish them when first intro-
duced into Uie stand. The horses were, as in
the Rev. Mr. Garrard's time, sorry jades, some-
times cripples, and the liamess looked as fn3
as tho carriages. The exceptions to this de-
scription were few, for the hackney-coachmen
possessed a monopoly and thought it unchaogts
able. They were of the same class of men—
nearly all geuticmen's servants or their sons.
The obtaining of a license for a hackney-coach
was generally done tlux)ugh interest. It was
one way in which many peers and members
of Parliament provided for any favourite ser-
vant, or for the servant of a friend. These
" patrons," whether peers or commonera, were
not uni'onimonly called " lords ;" a man was
said to be sure of a license if he had ** a great
lonl for his friend."
The "takings" of the London hackney-
coachmen, as I have ascertained from some
who were members of the body, were .10/. lOi.
a-week the year through, the months of May,
STREET-PKKFORMEKS ON STILTS.
[From a Sketch.]
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
iUU
June, and July, being the best, when their
earnings were from if)/, to 18/. a-week. Out
of this three horses had to be maintained.
During the war times the quality of oats which
are now \Ss. a quarter were 6O9., while hay
and the other articles of the horses' consump-
tion were proportionately dear. The expense
of repair to the coach or harness was but
trifling, as they were generally done by the
hackney-man himself, or by some hanger-on
at the public-houses frequented by the fra-
ternity.
Of the personal expenditure of hackney-
coachmen when '*out for the day** I had the
following statement firom one of them : — " "Wo
spent regular 7». a-day when wo was out. It
was before coffee-shops and new-fangled ways
came in as the regular thing that I'm speaking
of; breakflast l«.,good tea and good bread-and-
bntter, as much as you liked always, with a
^lasa of rum in the last cup for the * lacing' of
It — always rum, gin weren't so much run aft^r
then. Dinner was \b. (id,y a cut off some good
joint; beer was included at some places and
not at others. Any extras to follow was extras
to pay. Two glasses of rum-and-water after
dmner Is., pipes found, and most of us carried
our own 'baccy-boxes. Tea the same as break-
fast, and * laced' ditto. Supper the same as
dinner, or Bd, less ; and the rest to make up
the Is. went for odd glasses of ale, or stout, or
' short* — but * short* (neat spirits) was far less
drunk then than now — when wo was waiting,
or to treat a friend, or such-like. We did
some good in those days, air. Take day and
night, and 1200 of us was out, and perhaps
every man s^ent his 7«., and that's 1200 times
Tt." Followmg out this calculation we have
420/. per day (and night), 2940/. a-week, and
152,8^/. a-year for hackney-coachmen's per-
sonal expenses, merely as regards their board.
The old hackney-coachmen seem to have
been a self-indulgent, improvident, rather
than a vicious class ; neither do they seem to
have been a drunken class. They acted as
ignorant men would naturally act who found
themselves in the eEJoymentof a good income,
with the protection of a legal monopoly. They
had the sole right of conveyance within the
bills of mortality, and as that important dis-
trict comprised all tlie jdaces of public resort,
and contained the great mass of the population,
tbey may be said to have had a monopoly of
the metropolis. Even when the cabs were
llrst established these men exhibited no fear
of their earnings being affected. " But," said
an intelligent man, who had been a hackney-
coachman in his younger days, and who man-
aged to avoid the general rmn of his brethren,
*'but when the cabs got to the 100 then they
found it out The cabs was all in gentlemen's
liands at first. I know that. Some of them
'Was government-clerks too : they had their
foremen, to be sure, but they was the real pro-
prietors, the gentlemen was ; they got the
licenses. WeU, it's easy to understand how
100 cabs was earning money fast, and people
couldn't get them fast enough, and how some
himdi'eds of hackney-coachmen was waiting
and starving till the trade was thrown open,
and then Uie hacknev-coachmen was clean
beat down. They fell off by degrees. I'm
sure I hardly know what became of most of
them, but I do know that a many of them
died in the workhouses. They hadnt nothing
aforehand. They dropped away gradual. You
see they weren't allowed to transfer their
plates and licenses to a cab, or they'd have
dono it — plenty would. They were a far
better set of men than there's on the cabs
now. Tliere was none of your fancy-men,
that's in with women of the town, among the
old hackney-coachmen. If you remember
what they was, sir, you'll say they hadn't the
cut of it,"
The hackney-coachmen drove very deliber-
ately, rarely exceeding five, and still more
rarely achieving six miles an hour, unless in-
cited by the hope or the promise of an extra
faro. These men resided very commonly in
mews, and many of them I am assured had
comfortable homes, and were hospitable fel-
lows in their way, smoking their pipes withi
one another when ** off the stones," treating
their poorer neighbours to a glass, and talking
over the price of oats, hay, and horses, as well
as the product of the past season, or the pro-
mise of the next. The majority of them could
neither read nor write, or very imperfectly,
and, as is not uncommon with uninformed
men who hod thriven tolerably well without
education, they cared little about providing
education for their children. Politics they
cared nothing about, but they prided them-
selves on being " John-Bull Englishmen."
For public amusements they seem to have
cared nothing. ^* Our business," said one of
them, " was with the outside of play-houses.
I never saw a play in my life."
As my informant said, '* they dropped awny
gradual." Eight or ten years ago a few old
men, with old horses and old coaches, might
be seen at street stands, but each year saw
tlieir numbers reduced, and now there is not
one ; that is to say, not ono in tlio streets,
though there are four hackney-coaches at tlie
railway-stations.
One of tlio old fraternity of hackney-coach-
men, who had, since the decline of his class,
prospered by devoting his exertions to another
department of business, gave mo the following
account : —
**My father," said he, "was an hackney-
coachman before me, and ^ave me what was
then reckoned a good education. I could write
middling and could read the newspaper. I've
driven my father's coach for him when I was
fourteen. "When I was old enough, seventeen
I think I was, I had ahackney-coaeh and horses
of my own, provided for me by my father, and
so was started in the world. The first time
I plied with my own coach was when Sir
350
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
Francis Burdett was sent to the Tower from
his house in Piccadilly. Sir Francis was all
the go then. I heard a hackney-coachman
say he would be glad to drive him for nothing.
The hackney-coachmen didn't like Pitt I've
heard my father and his mates say many a
time *D n Pitt!' that was for doubling of
the duty on hackney-carriages. Ah, the old
times was the rackety times ! Tve often
laughed and said that I could say what perhaps
nobody, or almost nobody in England can say
now, that I'd been driven by a king. He grew
to be a king afterwards, George IV. One night
you see, sir, I was called off the stand, and told
to take up at the British Coffee-house in
Cockspur Street. I was a lad then, and when
I pulled up at the door, the waiter ran out and
said, * You jump down and get inside, the
Prince is a-going to drive hisself.' I didn't
much like the notion on it, but I didn't exactly
know what to do, and was getting off my seat
to see if the waiter had put anything inside,
for he let down the glass, and just as I was
getting down, and had my foot on the wheel,
out came the Prince of Wales, and four or five
rattlebrained fellows like himself. I think
Mtgor Hanger was one, but I had hardly time
to see them, for the Prince gripped me by the
ankle and the waistband of my breeches, and
lifted me off the wheel and flung me right
into the coach, through the window, and it
was opened, as it happened luckily. I was
little then, but he must have been a strong
man. He didn't seem so very drunk either.
The Prince wasn't such a bad driver. Indeed,
he drove very well for a prince, but he didn't
take tho comers or the crossings careful enough
for a regular jarvey. Well, air, the Prince
drove that night to a house in King Street,
Saint James's. There was another gentleman
on the box with him. It was a gaming-house
he went to that night, but I have driven him
to other sorts of houses in that there neigh-
bourhood. He hadn't no pride to such as
me, hadn't the Prince of Wales. Then one
season I used to drive Lord Bairymore in his
rounds to the brothels— twice or thrice a- week
sometimes. He used always to take his own
-fnne with him. After waiting till near day-
light^ or till daylight, I've carried my lord,
girls and all — fine dressed-up madams — to
Billingsgate, and there I've left them to break-
fast at some queer place, or to slang with the
fishwives. What times them was, to be sure !
One night I drove Lord Barrymore to Motlier
Cummins's in Lisle Street, and when she saw
who it was she swore out of the window that
she wouldn't let him in — he and some such
rackety fellows had broken so many things
the last time they were there, and had dis-
graced her, as she called it, to the neighbour-
hood. So my lord said, * Knock at the door,
tiger ; and knock till they open it.' He knocked
and knocked till every drop of water in tlie
house was emptied over us, out of the windows,
but my lord didn't like to be beaten, so he
stayed and stayed, but Mother Cummins
wouldn't give way, and at last he went home.
A wet opei*a-night was the chance for us when
Madame — I forget her name — Catalini?—
yes, I tliink that was it, was perfonmng.
Many a time I've heard it sung out — 'A guinea
to Portman Square' — and I've had it myself.
At the time I'm speaking of hackney-coachmen
took 30«. a-day, all the year round. Why, I
myself have taken 10/. and 18/. a- week through
May, June, and July. But then you see, sir,
we had a monopoly. It was in the old Toiy
times. Our number was limited to 1200. And
no stage-carriage could then take up or set
down on the stones, not within the biUs as it
was called — that's tiie bills of mortality, three
miles round the Hoyal Exchange, if I remem-
ber right. It's a monopoly that ahouldnt
have been allowed, I know that, but there was
grand earnings under it; no glass-coacbes
could take people to the play then. Glass
coaches is what's now called flies. They
couldn't set down in the mortality, it was fine
and imprisonment to do it We hadn't such
good horses in our coaches then, as is now in
the streets, certainly not. It was war-time,
and horses was bought up for the cavaliy, and
it's the want of horses for the army, and for
the mails and stages arter'axds, that's the
reason of such good horses being in the 'bossei
and cabs. We drove always noblemen or
gentlemen's old carriages, faznily coaches they
was sometimes called. There was mostly
arms and coronets on them. We got them di
the coachmakers in Long Acre, who took the
noblemen's old carriages, when they made
new. The Duke of complained once
that his old carriage, TKith his arms painted
beautiful on the panels, was plying in the
streets at Is. a mile ; his arms ought not to be
degraded that way, he said, so the coach-
maker had the coach new painted. When the
cabs first came in we didn't think much about
it ; we thought, that is, most of us did, that
things was to go on in the old way for ever;
but it was found out in time that it was not.
When the clarences, the cabs that cany four,
come in, they cooked the hackney-coechmea
in no time."
Introduction of Cabs.
Fob the introduction of hackney-ca6rio(e^ (a
word which it now seems almost pedantic to
use) we are indebted — as for the introduction
of the omnibuses — to the example of the
Parisians. In 1813 there were 1150 cabriolets
de place upon the hackney-stands of Paris : in
1823, ten years later, there were twelve upon
the hackney-stands of London, but the vested
right of the hackney-coachmen was an ob-
stacle. Messrs. Bradshaw and Botch, hov-
ever, did manage in 1823 to obtain hcenses
for twelve cabriolets, starting them at 8ii. ft
mile. The number was subsequently in-
creased to 50, and then to 100, and in les^
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
351
than nine years after the first cab plied in the
streets of London all restriction as to their
number was abolished.
The form of cab first in nse was that of a
hooded chaise, the leather head or hood being
raised or lowered at pleaswe. In wet, windy
weather, however, it was found, when raised,
to present so great a resistance to the progress
of the horse that the head was abandoned.
In these cabs the driver sat inside, the vehicle
being made large enough to hold two persons
ind the cabman. The next kind had a de-
tached seat for the driver alongside his fare.
On the third sort the driver occupied the roof,
the door opening at the back. These were
eilled " back-door cabs." The *' covered
cab," carrying two inside with the driver on
a box in front, was next introduced, and it was
a safor conveyance, having four wheels — the
preceding cabs had but two. The clarences,
carrying four inside, came next ; and almost
It the same time with them the Hansom's,
whieh are always called "showfulls" by the
eabmen. " Showfull," in slang, means coun-
terfeit, and the *' showfull" cabs are an in-
fringement on Hansom's patent. There are
BOW no cabs in use but the two last-mentioned.
A clarence built in the best manner costs
from 40/. to 50/., a good horse to draw it is
irorth 18/. to 20/., and the harness 4/. 10.5. to
5/. This is the fair price of the carriage and
harness when new, and from a good shop.
But second- hand cabs and harness are sold
and re-sold, and are repaired or fitted up by
jobbing coachmakers. Nearly all the greater
cab proprietors employ a coach builder on their
premises. A cab-horse has been purchased
in Smithfield for 409.
Some of the cabmen have their own horse
and vehicle, while others, and the great ma-
jority, rent a cab and horse from the pro-
prietor, and pay him so much a day or night,
having for dieir remuneration all they can
obtain for the amount of rent The rent
required by the most respectable masters is
I4s. in the season — out of the season, the best
masters expect the drivers to bring home
abont 9«. a-day. For this sum two good
horses are found to each cab. Some of the
cab proprietors, especially a class known as
" contractors," or ** Westminster masters," of
whom a large niunber are Jews, make the
men hiring their cabs ** sign " for 16«. a-day
in the season, and \%s. out of it. This system
is called signing instead of agreeing, or any
similar term, because the 6th <fc 7th Victoria
provides that no sum shall bo recovered from
drivers "on account of the earnings of any
hackney-carriage, unless under an agreement
in writing, signed in presence of a competent
witness." The steadiest and most trusty men
in the cabdriving trade, however, refuse to
Rign for a stipulated siun, as in case of their
not earning so much they may be compelled
Ktunmarily, and with the penalties of fine and
imprisonment, to pay that stipulated sum. I
was infoimed by a highly respectable cab pro-
prietor, that in the season 12«. 6(/. a-day would
be a fair sum to sign for, and Os., or even less,
out of the season. In this my informant can-
not be mistaken, for he has practical experience
of cab-driving, he himself often dri>'ing on on
emergency. There arc plenty, however, who
will sign for 10a., and the consequence of this
branch of the contract system is, that the men
so contracting resort to any means to make
their guinea. They drive swell-mobsmen,
they are connected with women of the town,
they pick up and prey upon drunken fellows,
in coUusion with these women, and resort to
any knavery to make np the necessar>' sum.
On this subject I give below the statement of
an experienced proprietor.
Character of Cabdrtvers.
Among the present cabdrivers are to be
foimd, as I learned from trustworthy persons,
quondam greengrocers, costermongers, jewel-
lers, clerks, broken-down gentlemen, especially
turf gentlemen, carpenters, joiners, saddlers,
coach-builders, grooms, stable-helpers, foot-
men, shopkeepers, pickpockets, swell-mobs-
men, housebreakers, innkeepers, musicians,
musical instrument makers, ostlers, some good
scholars, a good number of brok«^n-down
pawnbrokers, several ex-poHcemen, draper's as-
sistants, barmen, scene-shifters, one baronet,
and as my informant expressed it, " such an
uncommon sight of folks that it would bo un-
common hard to say what they was.** Of the
truthfulness of the list of callings said to have
contributed to swell the numbers of the cab-
men there can be no doubt, but I am not so
sure of ^Uhe baronet." I was told his name,
but I met with no one who could positively
say that he knew Sir V C as a cab-
driver. This baronet seems a tradition among
them. Others tell me that the party alluded
to is merely nicknamed the Baron, owing to
his being a person of good birth, and having
had a college education. The *' flashiest" cab-
man, as he is termed, is the son of a fashion-
able master-tailor. He is known among cab-
drivers as the *' Numpareil," and drives one of
the Hansom cabs. I am infoiincd on ex-
cellent authority, a tenth, or, tD speak beyond
the possibility of ca\'il, a twelfth of the whole
number of cabdrivers are " fancy men." These
fellows are known in the cab trade by a very
gross appellation. They are the men who
live Tvith women of the town, and are sup-
ported, wholly or partially, on tlie wages of
the women's prostitution.
These are the fellows who, for the most
part, are ready to pay the highest price for
the hire of their cabs. One swell-mobsman, I
was told, had risen from "signing" for cabs
to become a cab proprietor, but was now a
prisoner in France for picking pockets.
The worse class of cabmen which, as I have
before said, are but a twelfth of the whole,
352
LOSDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOS,
live ill Graiiby Street, St. Andrew's riace, and
Kiinilur looUities of tho Waterloo Itoad; iu
I'liinii St root, Pearl Rnw, &c., of the Borough
Ui);i(l; in Piincos Street, and othoi*3, of the
Loixlon Uoad; in Konic unpavod streets that
sLroteh from thi? Ni-w Kent Koad to L<K^k'8
J'ields; in tlie worst nai'ts of Westminster, in
the vicinity of Drury Lane. Whiteclmi)el, and
of IJssoii (irove, and wherever low deprimty
ilouiishes. " To get on a cah,'* I was told,
tind that is tho regular phrnsi;, " is the am-
hition of more loo8*» fellows tlian for anything
else, as it's reckoned both an idle life and an
exciting one." Whetstone Park is full of eab-
num, hut not wholly of the fancy-man olasa.
'i'he better boit of cal»men nsually reside in
tht! neighbourliood of tlie cab-proprietors'
yards, which are in all directions. S(»ine of
tlie hcst of these men are, or rather hove been
mechanic^, and liave L-ft a sedentarj' employ-
ment, whi<-h atfected tlii^ir health, for the o}>en
II ir of the cab business. Othei-s of tlie best
desci-iplion liave been connected with country
inuK, but the migority o£ them are London
men. They are most of them marrie<l, and
bringing up families decently on earnings of
from 15«. to '2'»s. a- week. Some few of their
wives work with their needles for the tailors.
Some of the cab -yards are situated in what
were old inn-yards, or the stable-yards attacheil
to gi-eat houses, when great houses nourished
in ports of the town that aie now accounted
vuI^jU". One of those I saw iu a verj- oiuious
I'lace. I was informed that the yard was once
( )liver Cromwell's stable-yard ; it is now a
receptacle for cabs. There are now two long
ranges of wooden erections, bljiek with age,
each caiTioge-house opening with lar^^'e folding-
dtiors, fastened in front with padlocks, bolte,
and hasps. In the old caiii age- houses are
tlie modem cabs, and mixed with them are
superannuated cabs, and the disjointed or
worn-out bodies and wlieels of cabs. Above
one range of the buildings, tlie red-tiled roofs
of which project a yard and more beyond the
exti'rior, are apartments occupied by the stable-
keepers and others. Nasturtiums with their
liglit green leaves and bright orange flowers
were trained along light trellis-work in front of
the windows, and presented a striking contrast
to the dinginess around.
Of the cabdrivei*s there arc several classes,
according to the times at which they are em-
jdoyed. These are known in the trade by the
names of the " long-daymen,'' ** the moniing-
mon," the *• long-night men,'' and tlie " short-
night men," and *' the bucks." The long-day
man is the driver who is supposed to be driving
his cab tlie whole day. He usually fetches
his cab out betw^een 9 and 10 in the morning,
and rotums at 4 or 5, or even 7 or 8, the next
morning ; indeed it is no matter at what hour
he comes in so long as ho brings the money
that he signs for : the long-day men are
mostly employed for the contractors, thongh
some of the respectable masters work their
cabs with long-day men, but then they leare
tho yard between 8 and 9 and are expected to
return between 1:2 an<l 1. These drivers when
working for the contractors sign for 16«. a-day
in the season, as before stated, and 12s. out of
the season ; and when employed hy the re-
spectable masters, they are expected to bring
homo 14«. or 0«., according to the season of
the yeai*. The long-day men are the partiei
who mostly employ the '* backs," or unliceosed
diivei't;. They are mostly out with their eabi
from 10 to 20 hours, so that their work becomes
more than they can constantly endore, and
they are consequently gbul to avail themselves
of the services of a buck for some hours at the
end of the day, (»r rather night. The morning
man generally goes out abi:»ut 7 in the morning
tmd returns to the yai*d at G in the evening.
Those who contract sign to bring home from
1U«. to lis. per day in the senson, and 7s. for
the rest of the year, while those working for
the better class of masters arc expected to
give the pi-oprietor 85. a- day, and &s. or Us. i^
cording to the time of the year. The momiog
man has only one hoi*se found him, wheren
the long-day man has two, and returns to tlif
yard to change horses between three and tii
ill the afternoon. The long-night man goei
out at 0 in tho evening and returns at 10 in
tho morning. He signs when working for
<'un tractors for 7s. or 8s. per night, at the best
time of the year, and 5s. or ha. at the bad.
Tho rent required by the good masters di£&n
scarcely from these stuns. He has only one
lioi'se found him. The shortpnight man fetches
Ids cab out at 6 in tlie evening and retnms it
(( in the moniing, bringing with him Os. in the
season and 4s. or -V. out of it. The contraetora
employ scai-cely any short-night men, while
the better masters, have but few long-day or
long-night men working for them. It is oobr
such persons as the Westminster masters who
like the horses or the men to be out so miny
hours together, and they, as my InformtDt
said, "dt»n't core what liecomes of either, so
long as the day's money is brought to them."
Tho bucks oi-t^ unlicensed eabdrivers, who ve
employed by those who have a hcense to tike
charge of the cab while the rcgalar drivcre are
at theur meals or ei^oying themselves. Theee
bucks ai'e generally cabmen who have bees
deprived of their license through bad condoet,
and who now pick up a hving by ^'rubbing np*
(that isjpohshing the brsss of the cabs) on the
raidi, and ''giving out buck" as it is called
amongst the men. They usually loiter about
the watering-houses (tliepublie-honses) of tke
cab-stands, and pass most of their time in the
tap-rooms. They are mostly of intempenti
habits, being generally " confirmed sots." Vay
few of tliem are married men. They have
been fancy-men in their prime, but, to use the
words of one of the craft, ** got turned up."
They seldom sleep in a bed. Some few hive
a bedroom in some obscure part of the toim,
but tho most of them loll aboat and doze in
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
358
t]j« tap-rooms by day, and sleep in the cabs by
uight. When tlie wateiing-honses close they
resort to the night coffee-shops, and pass the
time there till Uiey are wanted as bucks.
\Mien they take a job for a man they have no
regular agreement with the driver, but the
rule is that they shall do the best they can.
If Uiey take 2$, they give the driver one and
keep the other for themselves. If Is. Ot/. they
usually keep only QA. The Westminster men
have generally got their regular bucks, and
these mostly take to the cab with the second
horse and do all the night-work. At three or
Coor in the morning they meet the driver at
Mme appointed stand or watering-place. Bur-
leigh Street in the Strand, or Palace Yard, are
the &voarite places of rendezvous of the West-
minster men, and then they hand over to the
long-day man " the stuff** as they call it. The
regular driver has no check upon these men,
but unless they do well they never employ
them again. For " rubbing up " the cabs on
the stand these bucks generally get 6^/. in the
season, and for this they are expected to dish-
clout the whole of the panels, clean the glasses,
ind polish the harness and brasses, the cab-
driver having to do these things liiroself or
having to pay for it. Some of the bucks in
the season will make from 2«. to *Z». OJ. a-day
by rubbing up alone, and it is difficult to say
what they make by driring. Tliey ore the
most extortionate of all cab-drivers. For a
shilling fare they will generally demand 25.
and for a y». fare they will get 5*. or G«., ac-
cording to tlie character of the party driven.
Earing no licenses, they do not caro what
they charge. If the number of the cab is
taken, and the regular driver of it siuiimoncd,
the party overcharged is unable to swear that
the regular driver was the individual who de-
frauded him, and so the case is dismissed. It
is supposed that the bucks moke quite as
much money as the drivers, for they oi-e not at
all particular as to how tliey get their money.
The great majority, indeed 99 out of 100, have
been in prison, and many more than once, and
they consequently do not care about revisiting
gaol. It is calculated that there are at least
800 or 1000 bucks, hanging about the London
cab-stands, and these ore mostly regular
thieves. If they catch any person asleep or
drunk in a cab, they are sure to have a dive
into his pockets ; nor are they partieulor if the
party belong to their own class, for I am as-
siu-ed that they steal from one another while
dozing in tlie cabs or tap-rooms. Very few of
the respectable masters work their cabs at
night, except those who do so merely because
they have not stable-room for the whole of
tlicir horses and vehicles at the same time.
Some of the cabdrivers are the owners of
the vehicles they drive. It is supposed that
out of the 0000 drivers in London, at least
2000, or very nearly hdf, are small masters,
and they are amongst the most respectable
men of the ranki. Of tlie other half of the
cabdrivers about 1500 are long-day men,
and about 100 long-night men (there are
only a few yards, and they are principally
at Islington, that employ long-night men ) . Of
the morning-men and the short-night men
there are, as near as I can learn, about 500
belonging to each class, in addition to the
small masters.
The Watermen.
The Waterman is an important officer at tho
cab-stand. He is indeed the master of tho
rank. At some of the larger stands, sucli as
tliat at the London and Birmingham llailway
terminus, there are four watermen, two being
always on duty day and night, filleen hours
by day and nine by night, the day-waterman
becoming the night-waterman the following
week. On the smaller stands two men do this
work, changing their day and night labour in
tlie same way. The waterman must see that
there is no '* fouling" in the rank, that there
is no straggling or crowding, but that each
cab maintains its proper place. He is also
bound to keep the best order he can among
the cabmen, and to restrain any ill-usage of
the horses. The waterman's remuneration
consists in the receipt of \d. from every cab-
man who joins his rank, for which the cab-
man is supplied with water for his horse,
and \d. for every cabman who is hired ofl' the
rank. There are now 850 odd watermen, and
they must be known as trusty men, a rigid
inquiry bcijig instituted, and tmexceptional
references demanded before an appointment
to the office takes place. At some stands the
supply of water costs these officers 4/. a-year,
at othci'S tho trustees of the waterworks, or
the parishes, supply it gratuitously. All the
watermen, I am informed, on good authority,
have been connected with the working part of
it. They must all be able to read and writ<»,
for ns one of them said to me, ** We're expected
to undei*stand Acts of Parliament." They are
generally strong, big-boned, red-faced men,
civil and honest, mairied (with very few excep-
tions), and bringing up families. They are
great readers of newspapers, and in these
they devote themselves tirst of all to the police
reports.
One of the body said, "I have been a good
many years a waterman, but was brought up
a coaohbuilder in a London firm. I then got
into the cab-trade, and am now a waterman.
I make my t24«. a- week the year through : but
there's stands to my knowledge where the water-
man doesn't make more than half as much; and
that for a man that's expected to be respectable.
He can give his children a good schooling —
can't he, sir? — on VZ». a-week, and the best of
keep, to be sure. AVliy, my comings-in — it's a
hard tight for nic to do as much. I have
eight children, sir. I pay 10/. a year for three
tidy rooms in a mews — that's rather more
than 6«. a-week ; but I have the carriage place
;ji
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
below, and that brin^r^ me in a little. Six of
my children dou't com a hal^nny now. My
eldest daughter, she's 17, earns Qd. a-day from
a slop- tailor. I liatc to sec her work, work,
work away, poor lass ! but it's a help, and it
gets them bits of clothes. Another boy earns
iSd. a-day from a coach- builder, and lives with
mc. Anotlier daughter would try her hand at
shiitmaking, and got work from a shirtmakor
near Tabernacle Square ; and in four days and
a half she made Ave bodies, and they camo to
If. \0\d, ; and out of tlhit she had to pay l\d.
for her thread and that, and so there was
1j. :)(/. for her hard work ; but they gave satis-
faction, her employer said, as if tliat was a
grand comfort to her mother and me. But I
Koon put a stop to that. I said, * Come, come,
I'll keep you at home, and manage somehow
or anyhow, rather than you shall pull your
eyes out of your head for \\\d. a-day, and less ;
Bo it's no more shirts.' Why, sir, the last time
bn>ad was dear — 1847, was it? — I paid lOn.
and %)s, a- week for broad : it's now about half
what it was then ; rather more, though. But
tliere's one thing's a grand thing for poor men,
and that's such prime and such cheap lish.
The railways have done tliat. In Xottcnham-
court-roAil my wife con buy good soles, as
many pairs for Qd. of a night, as would have
been 3<. Oi/. before railways. That's a great
luxur}' for a poor man like me, that's fonder
c»f fish than meat. They ore a queer set we
liave to do with in the ranks. The * pounceys,'
(the class I have alluded to as fancy-men,
calh'd * pounceys'^ by my present informant),
are far the wor»t ' They sometimes try to bilk
me, and it's always hard to get your dues from
contractors. That's the men what sign for
jicttvy figures. Credit tliem once, and you're
never paid — never. None signs for so much
as the poimceys. They'd sign for 18*. Wliy,
if a i>ouncey'8 girl, or a girl he knows, seems
in luck, as they call it — ^tliat is, if she picks
tp a gentleman, partickler if he's drunk, the
pouncey — Fve seen it many a time — jumps
out of the ranks, for he keeps a look-out
f(jr the spoil, and he drives to her. It's the
pounceys, too, that mostly go gagging where
the girls walk. It's such a set we have to
deal with. Only yesterday an out-and-out
pouncoy called me such names about nothing.
Why, it's sliocking for any female that may be
pa^ising. Aye, and of a busy niglit in the
Market (HujTuarket), when it's an opera-
uijfht and a play-night, the gentlemen's coach-
men's as bad for bad language as the cabmen ;
nnil some gentlemen's very clever at that sort
of language, too. It's not as it was in Loni
's days. Swells now tliink as much of
one shilling as they did of twenty then. ]3ut
there's some swells left still. One young
Kwt'll biings four quarts of gin out of a public-
h<iuse in a pail, and the cabmen must drink it
oiit of i»int pots. lie's quite master of bad
language if they don't driuk fairly. Another
swell gets a gallon of gin always from Carter's,
and cabmen most drink it ont of qoart pots—
no other way. It makes some of them mod
drunk, and makes them drive like mad; for
they might be lialf drunk to be{^ with.
Thank Gml, no man can say he's seen me in-
capable from liquor for four-and-twenty years. .
There's no racketier place in the worid thu
the Market. Houses open all night, and
people going there after Vauxhall and them
places. After a masquerade at Vaazhall Pre
seen cabmen drinking ^ith lords and gentle,
men — but such lords g*'t fewer every day;
and cockney tars tliat was handy with Uieir flffts
wanting to tight Highlanders that wasnt ; and
the girls in all sorts of dresses here and there
and everywhere among tliem, the paint off and
their dresses torn. Sometimes calimen as-
saults us. My mates have been twice whipped
lately. I haven't, because I know liow to
humour their liquor. I give them fair play;
and more than that, perhaps, as I get luy |
living out of them. Any customer can pick
his own cab ; but if I'm told to call one, or
nonc's picked, tlie first on the rank, that's the
rule, gets the fare. I take my meals at a coffee-
shop ; and my mate takes a tiuni for me when
I'm at dinner, and so do I for him. My coflee*
shop cuts up 1501bs. a-meat a-day, eliiefly fur
cabmen. A dinner is i\\d. without beer : meat
4</., bread Id,, vegetables Id., and waiter \d,\
at least I give him a halfpenny. At 1
public-house I can dine capitally for 8{i., and
that includes a pint of beer. On Sundays there^
a dessert of puddings, and then it*8 If. A
waterman's berth when it's one of the best isn't
80 good, I fancy, as a pri\ileged cabman's."
SuatiESTIONS FOR PvEOLXATlNa THE TlUDE.
I SHALL now conclude with some statements of
sundry evils connected with the cab business,
under the old and also under the new system,
and shall then offer suggestions for their
rectification.
One cab proprietor, after expressing his
oi»inion that the new police arrangements for
the regulation of the trade would be a decided
improvement, suggested it would be an excel*
lent plan to make policemen of the watermen;
for then, he said, the cabmen thieves would be
reluctant to approach the ranks. He also
gave me the following statement of what he
considered would be greater improvements.
*'I think," he said, "it would do well for
those in the cab-trade if licenses were made
10/. instead of 5/., with a regulation that bl
should be returned to any one on bringing his
plates in pro\ious to leaving the trade, and so
not wanting his license any longer. Tb»
woidd, I believe, be a check to any illegal
transfer, as men wouldn't be so ready' to hand
over their plates to other parties when they
disposed of their cabs, if they were sure^ of 6/.
in a regular and legal way. I woidd also," he
soitl, *• reduce the duty from Irtt. a- week to Jkf
and that would aUow cabs to ]dy for ^d, a-mile.
As everything is cheai>er, I wonder people
LONDON LABOUli AND THE LONDON POOR.
355
doQ^ want cheaper cabs. 'Busses don't at all
answer the purpose; for if it's a wet day,
almost every one has to walk some way to his
"biiSf and some way to the house he's going to.
Sunday visitors particularly; and they like
the wot least of idl. Now, if cabs ran at G^.,
Ui^ could take a man and his wife and two
children, and more, two miles for I5., or four
miles for 2$., about what the 'busses would
charge four persons for those distances : and
the persons could go from door to door as
cheap ; or, if not quite so cheap, they'd save it
in not having their clothes spoiled by the
weather, and go far more comfortably than in
a %QS full of wet people and dripping um-
bndlas. I know most cabmen don't like to
hear of this plan ; and why ? Because, by the
present system they reckon upon getting a
ghilling a- mile ; and they almost always do
get it for an 8</. fare, and for longer distances
oft enough. But it wouldn't be so easy to
overcharge when there's a fixed coin a-mile
for the fare. It would be one, two, three,
four, five, or as many sixpences as miles.
Now it's 1«. 4d, for two miles, and that's Is. 6</.
— 1*. 8<l. for over two miles, and that means
^ — of course cabmen don't carry change
unless for an even sum ; 2«. 4i. for over three
miles and a half, and that's 25. 6r/. if not 35.,
and so on. The odd coppers make cabmen
like the present way."
I now give a statement concerning " foul
plates " and informers. It may, however, be
necessary to state first, that every cab pro-
prietor must be licensed, at a cost to him of
5/., and that he must affix a plate, with his
number, &c., to his cnb, to show that he is
duly licensed : wliile ever>' driver and water-
man is licensed at a cost to each of 55. a-year,
and is bound to wear a metal ticket showing
his number. The law then provides, that in
case of unavoidable necessity^ which must be
proved to the satisfaction of tlie magistrate, a
proprietor may be allowed to employ an un-
beensed person for twenty- four hours ; with
this exception, every unlicensed x)erson acting
as driver, and every licensed person lending
his license, or permitting any other person to
use or wear his ticket, is to be fined 'd. The
same pro>ision applies to any proprietor
** lending his license," but with a penalty of
1(W. I now give the statement : —
*• You see, sir, if a man wants to dispose of
hia cab, why he must dispose of it as a cab.
Well, if it aint answered for him, he'll get
somebody or other willing to try it on. And
the new hand will say, • I'll give you so much,
and work your plates for you ;' and so he does
when a bargain's made. Well, this things
gone on till there's 1000 or 1200 * foul plates '
in the trade; and then government says,
• What a lot of foul plates I There must be a
check to this.' And a nice check they found.
Mister (continued my informant, laying
a peculiar emphasis on the mister), the in-
former, was set to work, and he soon ferreted
out the foul plates, and there was a few sum-
monses about them at first ; but it's managed
different now. Suppose I had a foul plate in
my place here, though in course I wouldn't, but
suppose I had, Mister would drop in some
day and look about him, and say little or
nothing, but it's known what he's up to. In a
day or two comes Mister No. 2, he's
Mister No. I's friend; and he'll look
about and say, * Oh, Mister , I see you've
got so-and-so — it's a foul plate. I'll call on
you for 25. in a day or two. He calls sure
enough; and he calls for the same money,
perhaps, every three months. Some pays
him 55. a-year regular ; and if he only gets
that on 1060 plates, he makes a good living of
it — only 250/. a-year, 5/. a- week, that's all.
In course Mister No. 1 has nothing to
do with Mister — No. 2, not he : it's always
Mister No. 2 what's paid, and never
Mister No. 1. But if Mister No. 2
ain't paid, then Mister No. 1 looks in, and
lets you know there may be a hearing about
the foul plate ; and so he goes on."
This same Mister No. 1 , 1 am informed
by another cab proprietor, is employed by the
Excise to sec after the duty, which has to be
paid every month. Should the proprietor be
behind with the IO5. a-week, the informer is
furnished with a warrant for the month's
money ; and this he requires a fee of from 10».
to 1/. (according to the circiunstances of the
proprietor), to hold over for a short time. It
is difficult to estimate how many fees are ob-
tained in this way every month ; but I am
assured that they must amount to something
considerable in the course of the year.
It is proper that I should add that my in-
formants in this and other matters refer to
the systems with which they had been long
familiar. The new regulations when I was en-
gaged in this inquiry, had been so recently in
force, that the cab proprietors said they could
not yet judge of their effect ; but it was believed
that they would be beneficial. An experienced
man complained to me that the clashing of the
magistrates' decisions, especially when the po-
lice were mixed up with the complaints against
cabmen, was an evil. My informant also pointed
out a clause in the 2d and 3d Victoria, cap. 71,
enactuig that magistrates should meet once a
quarter, each fiunishing a report of his pro-
ceedings as respects the *' Act for regulating
the Police Courts in the Metropolis." Such a
meeting, and a comparison of the reports, might
tend to a uniformity in decisions ; but the clause,
I am told, is a dead letter, no such meeting
taking place. Another cab proprietor ssdd it
would be a great improvement if an authorised
officer of the police, or a government officer,
had the fixing of plates on carriages, together
with the inspection and superintendence of
them afterwards. These plates, it was further
suggested to me, should be metallic seals, and
easUy perceptible inside or out. Some of the
cab proprietors complain of the stands in
u:jO
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
Oxford-street (the best in all London, they
s;iy), being removed to out-of-the-way places.
Among tho mutters I heard complained of,
that of privileged cabs was much dwelt upon.
These are the cabs which arc privileged to
stand within a railway terminus, waiting to bo
hire<l on the arrival of tho trains. For this
privilege 2s. a- week is paid by the cabmen to
some of the railway companies, and a^ much
as .■>«. a- week to others. The cabmen complain
of this as a monopoly established to their dis-
advantage, and with no benefit to the public,
but merely to the railway companies ; for there
are cab-stands adjacent to all tho rwlway
stations, at which the public would be supplied
with conveyances in the ordinary way. The
horses in the cabs at the railway stations are,
I am informed, amongst tho hardest- worked of
any in London ; the following case being put
to me : — ** Suppose a man takes a faro of four
persons and heavy luggage from the Great
Western Tenninus to Milo End, which is near
upon seven miles, he must then hurry back
again all tho way, because he plies only at the
railway. Now, if he didn't, ho would go to the
nighest cab-stand, and his horse would be far
Hooncr relieved. Then, perhaps, he gets
another faro to Finsbury, and must hurry
back again ; and then another below Bromp-
ton; and he may live at Whitechapel, and
have to go home after all ; so that his poor
horse gets * bashed ' to bits."
Another cab proprietor furnished me M'ith
the following Btatement in writing of his per-
sonal experience and observation concerning
the working of the 2J)d clause in the Haoknoy
Carriage Act, or that concerning the signing
before alluded to. ** A master i^ in wnnt of
drivers. A, B, and C apply. The only ques-
tions asked are, * Are you a driver ? AVhere
is your license ? Well ! here, sign tljis paper ;
my money is so much.' In vcrj' few large
establishments is more caution used as to
real character of the driver than this; the
effect of which is, that a man with a really
good character has no better claim to employ
ment than one of the worst. Then, as to the
feeling of a man who has placed himself under
such a contract. * I must get mv money,* he
says, • I will do anjihing to obtain it ; and as
a gaol hangs over my head, what matters
about my breaking the law?* and so every
unfair trick is resorted to : and the means
used are 'gagging,' that is to say, driving
about and loitering in the thoroughftires for
jobs. It is known that some men very seldom
put on the ranks at all. Some masters have
told their drivers not to go on the stand, as
they well know that the money is not to bo
obtained by what is termed * ranking iL* Now,
the effect of this is, that the thoroughfares are
troubled with empty cabs. It has also this
effect : it causes great cruelty and overdriving
to the horses; and drivers under such cir-
cumstances frequently agree to go for verj-
mmh less than the fare, and then, as they
term it, take it out by insulting and bullying
their customers. It may be said tiiat the law
in force is sufficient to counteract this ; but it
may not bo known that a great many pro-
tection-clubs exist, by contributions from cab-
men, and which clubs are, in fact, premiums
for breaking the law ; for by them a man is
borne harmless of the consequences of being
fined. Now, these clubs exist sometimes at
public-houses, but in many cases in the pro-
prietors' yards, the proprietors themselves being
treasurers, and so becoming agents to induce
their servants to infiinge the law, for the pur-
I>ose of obtaining for themselves a large return.
The moral consequence of all this is, that men
beingdealt with and made to suffer as criminals,
that is to say, being sent to gaol to experience
the same treatment, save indignity, as comicted
felons, and all this for what they after all be-
lieve to be a debt, a simple contract between
man and man ; the consequence, I repeat, is,
that the driver having served his time, as it is
called, in prison, returns to the trade a de-
graded character and a far worse man. Be it
observed, also, that the fact of a driver haviog
been imprisoned is no barrier to his being,
employed again if ho will but sign — that's the
test.*'
AccotmT OF Crixe auokost Cabxek.
I UAVE now but to add a comparative state-
ment of the criminality of tho London coach
and cabmen in relation to that of other
callings.
The metropolitan criminal returns show us
that crime among this class has been un the
decline since 1840. In that year the number
taken into custody by the London police was
1310; from which time until 1813 there was a
gradual decrease, when the number of coach
and cabmen taken into custody was 820.
After this the numbers fluctuated sUghtlj;
till, in 1848, there were 072 individuals arrested
for various infractions of the law.
For tho chief offences given in the p<£ce
returns, I find, upon taking the average for
tho last ten years, that the criminality of \)\^
London coach and cabmen stands as follows :
For murder there has been annually 1 indi-
vidual in every 20,710 of this body taken into
custody ; for manslaughter, 1 in every 2820 ;
for rape, 1 in 8468 ; for common assaults, 1 in
40; for simple loroeny, 1 in 02; for wilful
damage, 1 m 285; for uttering counterfeit
coin, 1 in G12 ; for drunkenness, 1 in 40 ; for
vagrancy, 1 in 278 ; for tlie whole of the
offences mentioned in the returns,! in every 6
of their number. On comparing these resiita
with the criminality of other classes, we arrive
at the following conclusions : — The tendency
of the metropolitan coach and cabmen for
murder is less tlian that of the weavers (who
appear to have the greatest propensity of all
classes to commit this ciimo), as well aa
sailoi-s (who arc tho next criminal in this
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON FOOB,
a»7
respect), and labourers, sawyers, and carpen-
ters. Oo the otiier hand, howeyer, the coach
ttid cabmen wonld seem to be more ioclined
to this species of atrocity than the tamers,
eoachmakers, shoemakers, and tailors ; the
Utter, accoi*ding to the metropolitan poUce
returns for the last ten years, being the least
marderoas oi' all classes. For manslaughter,
the coaeh and cabmen hare a stronger predis-
poaition than any other class that I have yet
estimated. The average crime in this respect
iior ten ycvurs is 1 in 20,000 individuals of the
entire popolation of London ; whereas the ave-
nge for the same period among the London
coach and cabmen has been as high as 1 in every
S800 of their trade. In rape they rank less
eriminal than the labonrers, carpenters, and
veavers, bnt still much higher than the general
•verage, and considerably above the tailors,
sawyers, turners, shoemakers, or eoachmakers.
In the matter of common assaults they stand
the highest of all ; e\'cn the labourers being
less pngnacions than they. Their honesty
seems, nevertheless, to be greater than common
report gives them credit for; they being, ac-
eoiding to the some returns, less disposed to
'Commit simple larceny than either labourers,
sailors, or weavers, though far more dishonest
than the generality of the London population.
Nor arc they so intemperate as, from the
nature of their calling, we should be led to
imagine. The sailors (who seem to form the
most drunken of all trades, there being 1 in
ever}' 13 of tliat body arrested for this oftence),
and the labourers (who come next), are both
much more addicted to intoxication than the
eoflch and cabmen ; although the latter class
appear to be nearly twice as intemperate as
the rest of the people, the general average
being 1 drunlcard in every 81 of the entire
residents of the metropolis, and 1 in every 40
of the London coach and cabmon. Hence it
may be said, that the great vices of the class
at present under consideration are a tendency
to manslaughter and assault.
The cause of this predisposition to violence
against the person on the part of the London
eoach and cabmen I leave others to explain.
CAUMEX AND rOllTKRS.
H4^^!«o dealt with the social condition of the
conductors and drivers of the London omni-
buses and cabs, 1 now, in due order, proceed
to treat of the number, state, and income of
the men connected with the job and glass-
coaches, as well as the flies for the conveyance
of persons, and the waggons, carts, vans, drays,
&c., for the conveyance of goods from one part
of the metropolis to another ; also of the por-
ters engagi.'d in conveyance by hand.
Tho metropolitan carriages engaged in the
conveyance of [lossengers are of two classes, —
ticketed and unlicketed; that is to say, Uiosc
who ply for passengers in the public sUeuts,
cany a plate inscribed with a certain nnmb^,
by which the drivers and owners of them may
be readily known. Whereas those who do not
ply in public, but are let out at certain yards
or stabUs, have no badge alBxed to them, and
are, in many cases, scarcely distinguishable
ftom private vehicles. The ticketed carriages
include the stage and hackney-coaches, or, in
modem parlance, the 'busses and cabs of
London. The unticketed carriages, on the
other hand, comprise the glass-coaches and
flies that, for a small premium, may be con-
verted into one's own carriage for the time
being. But besides these there is another
large class of hired conveyances, such as the
job-carriages, which differ from the glass-
coaches principally in the length of time for
which they are engaged. The term of lease
for the glass-coach rarely exceeds a day;
while the fly is often taken by the hour ; the
•job-carriage, however, is more commonly en-
gaged by the moutli, and not unfrequcntly by
the year. Hence the latter class of conveyances
may be said to partake of the attributes of both
public and private carriages. They are public,
in so far as they are let to hire fbr a certain
term ; and private, ina.smuch as they aro often
used by the same party, and by them only, for
several years.
The tradesmen who supply earn age -horses
(and occasionally carriages) by the day, week,
month, or year, to all requiring such temporary
or continuous accommodation, are termed job-
masters, of whom, according to the Post-ntfice
Director}', there are 104 located in London ;
51 being also cab proprietors, and 28 tho
owners of omnibuses. They boast, and
doubtlessly with perfect truth, thot in their
stables are tho m(\)or port of the finest carriage
horses in the world. The powerful animals
which aro seen to dash proudly along the
streets, a pair of them drawing a hirge carriage
wth the most manifest ease, are, in nine
cases out of ten, not the pwperty of the noble-
man whose silver crest may adorn the glittering
harness, but of the job-master. C>ne of those
masters has now 400 hoi-ses, some of which
are worth 120 guineas, and the value is not
less than CO/, per horse, or 24,000/. in all.
Tho premises of some of the Jt^b-masters aio
remarkable for their extent, their ventilation,
and their scrupulous cleanliness. All those
in a large way of business have establishments
in the country as well as in town, and at the
latter ore received tlie horses that aro lame,
that require rest, or that are turned out to
grass. The young horses that are brought
up from the country fairs, or liavc been pur-
chased of the country breeders (for job-masters
or Uieir agents attend at Ilomcostle, North-
allerton, and all the great horse-fairs in York-
shire and Lincolnshire), are generally conducted
in the first instance to the counti-y establish- j
ment of the town master, which may be at
Bornet or any place of a like distance. These
ageats have what is colled the pick of tho
No. LXW.
»58
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON, POOR,
uiorkct.iiot nnfrequently visiting the premises
of tlie country liorso deiUer and there com-
pleting piircliases vrithnwt subjecting the
fami.r ( for country hoi-se-breeders and dealers
aro nearly nil farmers) to the trouble and
expen<i«' of sending his cattle to tlie fair ; and
it is thus that the London dealers secure the
bost stock in tlie kingdom. Until within
twonty or thirty years ago some of the wealthier
of the nobility or gentry, as I have previously
intimated, would vie with each other during
the r.ondon season in the display of their most
perfect Cleveland bays, or other description of
carriage-horses. The animals were at that
period walked to London under the care of the
coachman and his subordinates, the family
travelling post to town. Such a procedure
is now never resorted to. Very few noblemen
at present bring their carriage-horses to town,
even if within a short railway distance ; they
nearly nil job, as it is invariably called : that is,
they hire carriage-horses by the month at
from twenty to thirty guineas a pair, the job-
master keeping the animals by sending the
quantity of provender to his customer's pre-
mises, and they are groomed by his own
sen-ants. " Why sir," said a job-master to me,
" everybody jobs now. A few bishops do, and
lords, and diikes, and judges. Lord D jobs,
and lots of parsons and physicians ; yes lots,
sir. The royal family job, all but the Queen
herself. The Duchess of Kent jobs. The late
Duke of C jobbed, and no doubt the
present duke wUl. The Queen Dowager
jobbed regularly. It's a cheaper and better
plan for those that must have good horses and
handsome carriages. 1 dare say all the gentle-
men in the Albany job, for I know a many
that do. By jobbing, rich people can always
sf'cure the best horses in the world." I may add,
that nny of the masters of whom I have spoken
will job a carriage duly emblazoned (if ordered
to proWde one) ; he will job harness, too, with
the i)roper armorial bearings about it, and job
coachmen and grooms as well. For the use of
a lirst-class carriage 80 guineas a year is paid.
A brougham with one horse and a driver is
jobbed at 1G«. a-day. Itut these vehicles are
usually supplied by jobbing coach -masters :
but the jobbing in carriages is not so common
as in horses, gentlemen preferring to have
their own chariots or broughams, while the
jobbing in servants is confined principally to
ba'.'heb'rs or gentlemen keeping no establish-
ments.
The job trade I am assured has increased
fi\efoM since the general establishment of
r.iilways. Tn this trade there is no "slop"
supply. Even the smaller masters supply
hoi-ses worth the money ; for to furnish bml
horses would be at once to lose custom.
" Gentlemen are too good judges of horse-flesh,"
a small job-mnster said to me, '* to put up with
poor cnttle, even though they may wear slop
coats themselves, and rig their servants out in
slop liveries. Nothing shows a gentleman
more tlian his horse; and they can't get
first-rate horses in the coontiy as they can in
Tendon, because they're bought np for the
metropolis.'*
The men employed in the job-m asters' yards
do not live in the yards, except a lew of the
higher sonants, to whom can be entrusted the
care of the jiremises and of the costly animals
kept there. Nearly all the men in these yaids
have been brought up as grooms, and most,
in stable phraseology, ** know a horse weU."
None of them in the better yards receive less
than 20s. a- week in wages ; nor will any master
permit his horses to Ins abused in any manner.
Cruelty to a horse is ccrcain dismissal if
detected, and is now, I am glad tobe infonsed
on good autJiority, very rare I may here
mention the rather amusing reply of a rough
old groom out of place to my remark thit
Mr. would not allow any of his horses to
be in any way abused. ^* Abu$fd/" said idt
respondent, confining the meaning of the wad
to one signification : *' Abused ! you ma}n't so
much as swear at them." Another rough-
spoken person, who was for a time a forenm
to a job-master, told me that he had never, or
rarely, any difficulty in making a bargain with
gentlemen who were judges of horses ; " but,"
said he, '* ladies who set up for judges are
dreadful hard to please, and talk dreidfnl
nonsense. What do they know about tke
points of a horse ? But of all of 'em, a is
the worst to please in a horse or a carriage ;
she is the very devil, sir."
The people employed by the job-mastos
are strong, healthy-looking men, with no lack
of grey hairs — always a good sign among them.
Their amusements, I am told, are confined to
an odd visit to the play, more especially to
Astley's, and to skittle-playing. These ei^oy-
ments, however, are rare, as the groom cannot
leave his labours for a day and then return to it
as a mechanic may. Horses must be tended
day and night, Sunday and work-day, so that
it is only " by leave" that they can eiyoy inj
recreation. Nearly all of them, however, take
great interest in horse-races, steeple-chases
and trotting-matches. Many of them dabble
in the Derby and St. Leger lotteries, and some
** make a book," risking from two or three half-
crowns to 6/., and sometimes more than ther
can pay. These parties, however, belong as
much to the class of senants as they do to
the labourers engaged in connexion with the
transit of the metropolis.
I am informed that each of the ir>0 job-
masters iTsident in London muy be said to
employ six or seven men in their yards or
stables, some baring at least double that
number in their service, and others, again,
only two or three ; the latter, however, is the
exception rather than the rule. According to
this estimate there must be from 900 to 1000
indiriduals engaged in the job businesa of
London. Their number is made up of stable-
men, washers, ostlers, job-coachmen, and glass-
J
LONDON LABOUR AND TUE LONDON POOH.
309
coachmen or flymen, besides a few grooms for
Uie job cabriolets. The stableman attends
only to the horses in the stables, and gets
25. 6i. a-day, or 17s. 0^. a- week, standing wages.
The washer has from 18f. to 1/. a week, and is
employed to dean tho carriages only in the
best yards, for those of a second-rate character
the stableman washes the caniages himself.
The ostler attends to the yard, and seldom or
never works in the stables. Ho answers all
the rings at the yard bell, and takes the horses
and gigs, &c, round to the door. He is, as it
were, the foreman or superintendent of the
establishment. He usually receives I/. Is. a-
week standing wages at the best yards, while
at ^ose of a lower character only 10s. is given.
The job-coachman is distinct from the glass-
ooaehman or flyman. " He often goes away
firom the yard on a job," to use the words of
my informant, ** for three or six months at a
stretch." He is paid by the job-master, and
gets 30s. a- week standing wages. He has to
drive and attend to his horses in the stable.
The glass-coachman or flyman goes out merely
by the day or by the hour. He gets 9s. o-weeic
from the job-master, and whatever the cus-
tomers think proper to give him. Some
persons give 6d, an hour to the glass-coachman,
and others 5s. a-day for a pair of horses, and
from 3«. to 3s. Oii- a-day for one horse. A glass
coach, it may be as well to observe, is a carriage
and pair hired by the day, and a fly a one-
horae carriage hired in a similar manner.
The job-coachman and the glass-coachman
have for the most part been gentlemen's
servants, and have come to the yard while
seeking for another situation. They arc
mostly married men, having generally wedded
either the housemaid, nurse, or cook, in some
family in which they have Uved. " The
lady's maid," to quote from my infoi-mant,
"* is a touch above them. The cooks are in
general the coachman's favourite, in regard
of getting a little bit of lunch out of
her.*'
The job-coachman's is usually a much better
berth Uian that of the glass-coachman or fly-
man. The gentlefolks who engage the glass-
coaches and flies are, I am told, very near, and
the flies still nearer than the glass-coaches.
The fly i>eople, as the customers were termed
to me, generally Uve about Gower-street and
Burton-crescent, Wobum- place, Tavistock -
Kquare, Upper Baker- street, and other " shabby-
genteel** districts. The great m^jority of the
persons using flies, however, live in the suburbs,
and ore mostly citizens and lawyers. The
chief occasions for the engagement of a fly are
visits to the theatre, opera, or parties at night,
or else when the wives of the above-named
gentry are going out a-shopping; and then the
directions, I am told, are generally to draw
two or three doors away from the shops, so
that the shopmen may not see them drive up
in a carriage and charge accordingly. A
number of flies arc engaged to carry the re-
ligious gentry in the suburbs to Exeter Hall
during the May meetings ; and it h they, I am
assured, who are celebrated for over- crowding
the vehicles. "Bless you," said one man
whom I saw, " them folks never think there
can be too many behind a boss — six is nothing
for them, — and it is them who is tho meanest
of all to the coachman ; for he never, by no
chance, receives a glass at their door." The
great treat of the glass -coachman or flyman,
however, is a wedding ; then they mostly look
for 5s ; " but," said my informant, " brides and
bridegrooms is getting so stingy that now
they seldom gets more than three." Formerly,
I am assured, they used to get a glass of wine
to drink the health of the happy pair; but
now the wine has declined to gin, *' and even
this/' said one man to me, ''we has to bow
and scrape for before we gits it out of 'em."
There is but little call for glass-coaches com-
pared \rith flies now. Since the introduction
of the broughams and clarences, the glass-
coaches have been almost all put on one side,
and they are now seldom used for anything
but taking a party with a quantity of luggage
from the suburbs to the railway. They were
continued at weddings till a short time back,
but now the people don't like them. " They
have got out of date," said a flyman ; " besides,
a clarence or brougham, even with a pair of
horses, is one-third cheaper." There are no
glass-coaches now kept in the yards, if they
are wanted they are hired at the coachmoker's.
Take one job-master with another, I am in-
formed that they keep on an average six flies
each, so that the total number of hack clarences
and broughams in the metropolis may be said
to be near upon 100(). Postboys are almost
entirely discontinued. The majority of them,
I am told, have become cabmen. The number
of job-horses kept for chance-work in the
metropolis may be estimated at about 1000, in
addition to the cab and omnibus horses, many
of which frequently go out in flies. One lady
omnibus proprietor at Islington keeps, I am
told, a large number of flies, and so do many
of the large cab-proprietors.
According to ihe Government returns, the
total number of carriages throughout Great
Britain, in 1848, was 140,000 and odd, which
is in the proportion of 1 carriage to every
33 males of the entire population above twenty
years of age. Of these carriages upwards of
97,000 were charged with duty, and yielded
a revenue of more than 434,000/. while 52,000
were exempt from taxation. Those charged
with duty consisted of 67,000 four-wheeled
carriages, (of which 26,000 were private con-
veyances, and 41,000 let to hire,) and 30,000
two-wheeled carriages, of which 24,500 were
for private use, and 5,500 for the use of tho
public: —
The 41,000 four-wheeled carriages let to
hire were subdivided in round numbers as
follows : —
3i3Q
LONDON LAlUnit AND THB LONDON POOR.
Four-wlioalod carriages, let to bire with-
out horBes 500
Pony-pbootonR, &c. drawn by a pair . 2,000
Bixmghams, flics, &c. drawn by oae
horse 30,000
Ilearses 1,700
Pott-chaises 0,5dO
Cariiorb' conTcyaaocs . . . 1,'^jO
41,000
Of the 02,000 carriogos exempt from taxa-
tion there was the fullowiug distribution : —
Private poay-pbaetoua . . . 7,000
Ditto pony-chaises .... 4,500
Chaise carts dU,Q00
Conveyances for imupers and crimi-
nals 1,500
5-^,000
The owners of four-whcc^ed piivate cor-
rinjjoH were, it appean from the some returns,
xJO,7;jO: of whom,
10,310 persons kept 1 carriaqc.
3,fiH5 „ 2 „
405 „ 3 „
HO „ 4 „
.',8 „ 5 „
10 „ 0 „
« » 7 „
11 „ 8 and upwards.
Now the total number of persons returned
as of independent means, at the time of
taking the last census, was SOO.OOi) and odd :
of these very nearly 490,000 were twenty years
of age and upwards. Hence it would appear
that only 1 person in every 23 of those who
are indt-pencfent keep their carriage.
Such are the statistics of carriages, both
public and private, of Great Brittiin. AVhat
proportion of the vehicles above enumerated
belong to the metropolis I have no means of
ascertaining with any accuracy.
The number of horses throughout the coun-
try is equally curious. In 1847 there were
no loss than 800,(XX) horses in Great Britain,
which is in the proportion of ftv« horses to
each carriage, and oif one horse to every six
males of the entire population of twenty years
of age and upwards. Of these 800,000 horses,
upwards of 320,000 were charged with duty,
while nearly 500,000 were exempt from it.
Among the d20,CK)0 horses charged with duty
were comprised —
Private riding and caniage-horses . 141,000
Draught-boises used in trade • . 147,000
Ptmies 22,000
Butchers' horses .... 4,750
Job hoives ..... 1,750
Bace-horaes 1,500
320,000
The horses not charged with duty were in
round numbers as under: —
Horses used in husbandry • . 880,500
„ belonging to small farmers . 01,000
„ belonging to poor cleigymen . 1,250
„ belonging to poor traders . 10,500
„ belonging to volunteers . 13,000
„ used in untaxed carriages . 15,000
„ used by waggoners for their
own riding . 2.0QO
„ itsed by bailifis, shepherdf*, &c. 1,000
„ used by masters, ditto . . 3,700
„ used by market-gaiileners . 2,000
„ in conveying pa;ii>ers and cri-
minals . . . . 250
„ kept for sole .... 7,000
„ kept for breeding . . . 4,500 ;
Colts not used 16,000 ,
l*ost-horses 8,500 ,
8tage-coach horses .... 9,000 j
Loudon hackney- coach horses . . 3,600
496,000
The owners of the 140,000 private ridinj
and carriage-horses were 100,000 in number,
and of these.
78,335 persons kept .
. . 1
17,358
»i •
. . 2
4,080
» •
. . 3
1,024
»» •
. 4
022
t» •
. . 6
380
n •
. 6
828
tf •
. 7k>8
8L
»• • «
. . »
107
M •
10 to 12
54
1* • •
13 to IS
0
n • •
. 17
8
M • •
. 18
0
If • •
. 10
07
»» • •
. .20
And upwards.
From this it will appear, that two penoos |
in every seven of those who are of rndepeii- ;
dent means keep a riding or carriage-hoiie.
The increase and decrease in the nomberof
carriages and horses, witliin the last ten jetiiv
is a remarkable sign of the tames. Since 1840, -
the number of all kinds of horses throoghoBt
Great Britain has decreased 48,000. But
while some have declined, others have in-
creased in number. Of private riding aad
carriage-horses (where only one is kept)
there has been a decrease of 12,000, ana of
ponies, 700. Stage-coach horses lurre deeUned .
4000; itost-horses, 2500; horses used in hvs- |
bandry, 07,000 ; breeding mares, 1800 ; colts,
7000; and hones kept for s^le, 500. The ,
London haekney-coach horses, on ihit other -
hand, have increased in the same spaee of
time no less than 2000, and so have 6te
draught-horses osed in tsnde, to the estail
of 17,000; while those kept by small faniMn
are 13,000 more, and the raee-hones 400
more, than they were in 1840.
Of carriages, those having two wheels. Mi
drawn by one hone (gigs, Ac,), have de-
creased 15,000, and the post-chaises 700;
LOKDOS LABOUR AND THE LONDOS POOR,
361
whereas the four- wheel carriages, drawn by one
ho»e, end let to hire (broughams, clarences,
&c), haTe increased 6000, the 'X>oDy-phaetonB
8000, pony-chaises 2000, and the chaise- carts
19,000.
The total revwrae derived from the transit
of this conntry, by means of carriages and
horses, amounted in 1848 to upwards of
1,190,000/. This sum is made up of the fol-
lowing items: —
Duty on caniages . . . £134,334
„ horses . . . 305,041
„ horses let to hire . 155,72 1
„ stage-carriages . . 00,218
„ hai'kney-coaches . 28,020
licenses to let horses to hire . fi,008
„ stage-coaches . . 0,000
„ hackney uirriages . 435
£1,127,249
From the foregoing accounts, Uien, it would
ippear, that the number of carriages and
horses for the use of the public throughout
Great Britain, two years ago, was as follows:
Job carriages 500
Broughams, clarenoes, flies, &c.
drawn by one hcrse . . 30,000
Fony.phaetons and pair . . 2,000
Tost-chaises .... 6,500
Total carriages lot to hire . 38,000
Job horses 1,760
Post horses .... 8,500
Stage-coach hordes . . . 0,000
London hackuey-cooch horses . 3,000
Total horses for public coninges 23,450
The CAnR\TSG Tiude.
The next part of the subject that presents
itself is the conveyance of goods from one
part of the metrox>olis to another. This, as
I hare before said, is chiefly effected by vans,
waggons, carts, drays, &c. It has already
been shown thiit the number of carriers' wag-
gons, throughout Great Britain, in 1848, was
1,S50, while the carriers' carts were no less
than 17,000 odd, or -very neariy 8000 in all.
This was 800 more than they were in 1840.
Of the number of horses engaged in the
" carrying trade," or rather that particular
branch of it which concerns the removal of
goods, there are no returns, unless it be tliat
there were 2000 horses under 18 hands hig<h
ridden by the waggoners of this kingdom.
The number of carriers, carters, and wag-
goners throughout Great Britain, at the time
di taking the last census, was 84,206, of whom
^411 were located in England, 780S in Beot
Ind, 040 in Wides, -and 148 in -the BrHish
lales. Of the 84,996 carriers, earters, and
waggoners, throughout Great Britain, in 11841,
dOjVTfi were males of 20 years of age And «p.
irwds, while, in }8tl, the number was ob^
18,659, or upwards of 10,000 less ; so that
between these two periods the tmde muHt
have increased at the rate of 1000 per annuni
at least. I am informed, however, that the
next returns will show quite as Icui-go a de-
crease in the trade, owing to the conveyance
of goods baring been mainly transferred from
the road to the rail since the lost-mentioned
period. The number of carriers, carters, and
waggoners engaged in the metropohs in 1841
wftii 3h90, of whom 3067 were males of twenty
years of age ond upwards. In 1831 there
were but 871 indiriduals of the same age
pursuing the same occupation; and I am
as8ur»:d, that owing to the increased facilities
for the conveyance of goods from the country
to London, the trade has increased at even
a greater rate since the last enumeration of
the people. The London caniers, carters,
and waggoners, may safely be said to be now
nearer 8000 than 4000 in number.
The London Cakjien
Ake of two kinds, public and private. Tl»c
private carmen approximate so closely to
the character of servants, that I purpose
dealing at present more particuloily with
the public conveyers of goods from one
part of the metropolis to another. The me-
tropolitan public master -carmen are 207 in
number, of whom flfteen are licensed to ply
on the stands in the city. The carmen here
enumerated must be considered more in the
light of the owners of vans and other vehicles
for the rcraoA-ing of goods than working men.
It is ti*ue that some drive their own vehicles ;
but many are large proprietors, and belong to
the class of employers rather than operatives.
I shdl begin my account of the London
carmen with those appertaining to the unli-
censed class, or those not resident in the city.
The modern spring van is, as it were, the
landau, or travelling carriage of the working
classes. These carriages came into general
use between twenty and thirty years ago, but
were then chiefly employed by the great cai*-
riers for the more rapid delivery of the lighter
bales of goods, especially of drapery and glass
goods and of parcels. They came into more
general use for the removal of furniture in
1830, or thereabouts; ond a year or two after
were fitted up for the conveyance of pleasure-
parties. The van is usually painted yellow,
but some are a light brown or a dork blue
picked out with red. They are fourteen feet
in length on the average, and four and a half
feet in breadth, and usually made so as, by the
acyufltment of the shafts, to be suitable for the
employment of one, two, three, or four horses,
— tfie tliird hone, when three are used, being
yoked in advance of the pair in the shafts.
The -seats are generally removable, and are
ranged along the sides of the rehicle, across
the top, and at the two comers at the end, as
the extremity of the \*an from the horses is
oaUed, the entranee being at the end, usually
SQU
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
by means of iron steps, and through a kind of
gate which is secured by a strong lateh. The
driver sits on a box in front, and on some vans
seems perched fearfully high. A wooden frame-
work surmounts the body of the carriage, and
over it is spread an awmng, sometimes of
strong chintz patterned, sometimes of plain
whity-brown calico — the side portions being
made to draw like curtains, so as to admit the
air and exclude the sun and rain at pleasure.
If there be a man in attendance besides the
driver, he usually sits at the end of the vehicle
close to the gate, or rides on the step or on a
projection fixed behind. A new van costs from
50/. to 80/. The average price of a good van-
horse is from IG/.to 18/. The harness, new and
good, costA from 5/. to 5/. 10«. for two horses.
The furniture- van of the latter end of the week
is the pleasure-van of the Sunday, Monday,
and Tuesday — those being the days devoted
to excursions, unless in the case of a club or
society making their *' annual excursion," and
then any day of the week is selected except
Sunday ; but Sunday on the whole is the prin-
cipal day. The removal of the seats and of the
apparatus for the awning converts the pleasure
into the furniture-van. The uses to which
the same vehicle is put are thus many a time
sadly in contrast. On the Saturday the van
may have been used to convey to the brokers
or Uie auctioneers the furniture seized in some
wretched man's dwelling, leaving behind bare
walls and a wailing family ; and on the Sunday
it rings with the merriment of pleasure-seekers,
who loudly proclaim that they have left their
cares beliind them.
The OAvners usually, perhajss, I might say
always, unite some other calhng along with
the business of van-proprietorship ; they are
for the most part greengrooei*s, hay and corn-
dealers, brokers, beershop-kcepers, chandlers,
rag • and - bottle shopkeepers, or dairymen.
Five-sixths of them, however, are greengrocers,
or connected with that trade. It is not un-
usual for these persons to announce that,
besides their immediate calling of a green-
grocer, they keep a ftumiture-van, go pleasure-
excursions, beat carpeta (if in the suburbs),
and attend evening parties. Many of them
have been gentlemen's servants. They are
nearly all married men or widowers with fami-
lies, and are as a body not improsperous.
Their tastes are inexpensive, though some
drink pretty freely; and their early rising
necessitates oarly going to bed, so there is
little evening expenditure. I am told their
chief ei^oyments are a visit to Astley's, and to
tlie neighbouring horse races. Their ei^oy-
ment of the turf, however, is generally made
conducive to their profits, as they convey vans
full to Hampton, £gham, and Epsom races.
A few van-men, however, go rather fiurther in
turf-business, and bet a UtUe ; but these, I am
assured, are the exceptions. The excursions
are more frequently to Hampton Court than
to any other place. The other favourite resorts
are High Beach, Epping Forest, and Kyc
House, Hertfordshire. Windsor is but occa-
sionally visited; and the shorter distances,
such as Richmond, are hardly ever visited in
pleasure- vans. Indeed the superior cheapness
of the railway or the steamboat has confined
the pleasure-excursions I am speaking of to
the longer distances, and to places not so easily
accessible by other means.
The van will hold fix>m twenty to thirty
grown persons. *• Twenty, you see, sir," I was
told, " is a very comfortable number, not reck-
oning a few little 'uns over; but thirty, oh,
thirty's quite the other way." The usual chaige
per head for "a comfortable conveyance to
Hampton Court and back," including all charges
connected with the conveyance, is 2s. (children
going for nothing, unless they are too big
for l^ees, and then sometimes half price).
Instead of 2s. perhaps the weekly-payment
speculator receives 2s. 6d. or 2s. 3<f. ; and if he
can engage a low-priced van he may clear 9d,
or Is. per head, or about 1/. in all. On this
subject and on that of under- selling, ns it was
described to me, I give the statement of a very
intelligent man, a prosperous van -proprietor,
who had the excellent characteristic of being
proud of the kindly treatment, good feeding,
and continued care of his horses, which are
among the best employed in vans.
The behaviour of these excursionists is,
from the concurrent testimony of the many
van-proprietors and drivers whom I saw, most
exemplary, and perhaps I shall best show this
by at once giving the following statement from
a very trustworUiy man : —
**I have been in the van-trade for twenty
years, and have gone excursions for sixteen
years. Hampton Court has the call for excur-
sions in vans, because of free-trade in the
palace : there's nothing to pay for admission.
A party makes up an excursion, and one of
them bargains with me, say for 21, It shouldn't
be a farthing less with such cattle as mine,
and everything in agreement with it. Since
I've known the trade, vans have increased
greatly. I should say there's five now where
^ere was one sixteen years ago, and more.
There's a recommendable and a respectable
behaviour amongst those that goes excursions.
But now on an excursion there'9 hardly aoy
drunkenness, or if there is, it's through the
accident of a bad stomach, or something that
way. The excursionists generally carry a
fiddler with them, sometimes a trumpeter, or
else some of them is master of an instrument
as goes down. They generally sings, too,
such songs as, * There's a Good Time coming,'
and, *The Brave Old Oak.' Sometimes a
nigger-thing, but not so often. They cany
always, I tlunk, their own eatables and drink-
ables ; and they take them on the grass veiy
often. Last Whit-Mondi^ I counted fifty vans
at Hampton, and didn't see anybody drunk
there. I reckoned them earlyish, and perhapa
ten came after, at least ; and every van womd
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
303
bsfe twenty sod mote." Sixty tios would, at
Uos moderste compiitotion, caarej 1200 per-
lOBS. ''They walk tbroai^ the Palaee at Hamp-
ton, and sometiflaes dflmee oo the grass after
th^ hot not for long. It soon tirra, dancing
on the graaa. A adbool often goea, or a dnb,
or a society, or anj party. I genarally do
Hampton Court in three boon with two
boraes. I reckon it's fourteen miles, or near
that, from my place. If I go to High Beach
there's the swings for the yoong ones, and the
other meny-makings. At Bye House it's
ooontiy eii^yment — mere loolong about the
real oountzy. The Derby day's a great Tan-
digr. Pm sure I couldn't guess to one hundred
—not, peihapa, to twice that — how many plea-
mre-Tans go to the Derby. It's extra charge
—41/. lOt. for the ran to Epsom and back.
ItTa a long distance ; but the Derby has a won-
deifiil draw. Tve taken all sorts of excursions,
but ifa working-people that's our great sup-
pod. They often smoke as they come back,
though it's against my rules. They often
takes a barrel of beer with them."
It is not easy to ascertain the number of vans
used for pleasure-excursions, but the follow-
ing is the best information to be obtained on
the subject. There is not more than one-sixth
of the greengrocers who have their own vans :
some keep two vans and carts, besides two or
three trucks ; others, three Tans and carts and
trucks. These Tans, carts, and tracks are
principally used in the pri\-ate transactions of
their business. Sometimes they are employed
in the remoTal of furniture. The nimiber of
Tans employed in the metropolis is as fol-
lows:—
Those kept by greengrocers, about 4.'M)
By others for excursions . 1000
Total 1400
The season for the excursion trips com-
mences on Whit-Monday, and continues till
the latter end of September.
Table showing the average number of plea-
sure-vans hired each week throughout the
season, and the decrease since railway ex-
cursions.
Before the Since the
Railway. Railway,
Excur- Excur-
sion trips, sion tripe.
Hampton Court, Sunday .50 10
„ Monday . 80 30
„ Tuesday . 20 10
Bye House, weekly . . 35 12
High Beach „ . . 40 20
225
82
From this it appears that before the railway
trips there were 225 pleasure-excursions by
Tans every week during five months of the year
(or 4500 such excursions in the course of the
twelTe months), and only 1640 since that time.
This is exdusire of those to Epsom-races, at
whidi there were nearly 900 more.
When emplqjed in the removal <^ fumitore
the aTerage weig^ carried by these Tans is
about two tons, and they usually obtain about
two loads on an aTerage per week. The party
engaged to take charge c^ the Tan is generally
a man employed by the owner, in the edacity
of a serTsnt. The aTerage weekly salary of
these servants is about 18<. Some van-pro-
prietors will employ one man, and some as
many as nine or ten. These men look after
the horses and stables of their employers. A
Tan proprietor takes out a post-horse Ucensc»
which is 7s. 6^. a-year ; and for excursions he
is also obliged to take out a stage-carriage
license for each Tan that goes out with plea-
sure-parties. Such Ucense costs 3/. 3s. per
year ; and besides this they have to pay to thu
excise \^d per mile for each excursion tliey
take. The van-horses number about three t/i
each van, so that for the whole 1450 vans as
many as 4^350 horses are kept.
Calculating the pleasure-excursions by van
in the course of the year at from 1500 to 2(XKj
— and that twenty persons is the complement
carried on each oocaaion — ^we have a pleasure-
excursion party of between 30,000 and 40,000
persons annually : and supposing that eiicli
excursionist spends 3s. 64<., the siun spent
every year by the working -classes inpleawure-
excursions by spring-vans alone will amount
to v^y neariy 7000/.
The above account relates only to the con-
veyance of persons by means of the London
vans. Concerning the removal of goods by the
same means, I obtained the following infonnu-
tion from the most trustworthy and experienced
members of the trade.
** The charge for the use of spring-vans fw
the conveyance of furniture and other damage-
able commodities is Is. 0</. an hour, when one
man is employed assisting in packing, unpack-
ing, conveying the furniture into its place of
destination, and sometimes helping tr> fix it
If two men are employed in this labour, 2s. on
hour is the charge. If the furniture is c(m-
veyed a considerable distance the carman's
employer may at his option pay 0</. a mile in-
stead of Is. (Sd, an hour, but tlie engagement
by the hour ensues in nine cases out of ten."
The conveyance of people on pleasure ex-
cursions and the removal of furniture con-
stitute the principal business of tlie west-end
and suburb carmen. The city carmen, how-
ever, constitute a distinct class. They are the
licensed carmen, and none others are allowed
by the city authorities to take up in the pre-
cincts of the city of London, though any one
can put down therein ; that is to say, the un-
licensed carman may convey a houseful of fur-
niture from the Strand to Fleet-street, but he
may not legally carry an empty box from Fleet-
street to the Strand. The city carmen, as 1 have
said, must be licensed, and the law sanctions
the foUowing rates of payment for carriage •
:{04
LOifDON LABOUR AND THB LONDON POOB,
« Bj order of Quarter Sessions, held aft
(liiiMhall, MidBnmmer, 40tfa George IIL, all
goods, wares, and nnrcbandiae whatsoev^,
fnighing 14 cwt. or under,. shall be deemed
half a load; and finom 14 0Wt. to »0 owl shaU
be deemed a load ; from any part of the cHy
of Tendon the rates for carrying thereof shall
be as follow. For any place within and to the
extension of half a railo, for half a load and
u:i:ler, "is. ?</.; above half a load and not
exoecdin? a load, 4«. 'id. ; from half a mile to
a mile, for half a load or under, d«. 4d. ; for
above Iiidf a load and not exceeding a load,
Ox. ii«/. ; a mile, to one mile and a half, for half
a load or under. At, 'id. ; for above half a load
and not cxcooding a load, Tm. llrf. ; and so on,
according to distance."
The other distances and wei^its are in
relative proportion. These regulations, how-
ever, are altogether disregarded ; as are those
which limit the cartage for hire within the
city to the carmen licensed by the city, who
must l»e freemen of the Carmen's Company,
the only company in London whose members
are all of the trade incorporated. Instead of
the prices I liavc cited, the matter is now one
of bargain. Average charges are \s. M. an
hour Ihr vans, and 1*. for carts, or 45. and
4*. OJ. per ton from the "NVest India Docks to
any part of the city ; and in like proportion
from the other docks and localities. The
inlVinpcra of the city carmen's privileges are
sonictiniiM called pirates ; but within these
throe or four years no strenuous attempts
have been mailo to check them. One carman
told me that he had complained to the City
Chamberlain, who told him to punish the
offenders; but as it was left to indi\idual
efforts nothing was done, and the privileges,
except as regards standings, are almost or
idtogether a dead letter. Fourteen years ago
it cosit 100/. to become free of the Carmen's
Company. Ton years ago it cost 32/. odd;
and within these fl>*o years the cost has been
reduced to 11/. The carmen who resort to
the stands pay 5«. yearly for that pri>'ilege.
The others are not required to do so; but
every yeor they have to register the names of
their ser\'ant<«, with a bond of security, who
are employed on goods •• und^r bond ; •* and
it is customary on these occasions to give the
toll-keeper 5ji., which is equal to a renewal of
the license. Until ten years ago there were
only 400 of tli^se conveyances licensed in the
city. The figures called " carroons" ran ftx)m 1
to 400 ; and were sold by their possessors, on a
disposal of their property and privilege, as if
freehold property, binng worth about 100/.
a carroon. No compensation was acconied
when the restriction as to numbers was abo-
lished. The principal standings are in Cole-
man-street. Bread street, Bishopsgate-street,
Dowgate-hill, Thames-street, and St. Msry
Axe. The charges do not diffV>r fh>m those
I have given; but some of the employers
of these carmen drive very hard bargains.
A car of tho best boild costs from 601. to 70f.
The best horses cost 40/. ; the arerage price
beinfp dO/. at the least. The wages of the
cannon's servants vary trtsm 16<. to 31j. a.
week, under the best masters ; and from ISa
to I4«. under the inferior. These men sre
for the most part from the countiy.
Tna PoRTEBS, &o.
I KOw approach the only remaining part of
this subject, via. the conveyance of goods and
communications by means of the porters, mes-
sengcrs, and errand-boys of tho metR>poli&
The number of individuals belonging to this
class throughout Great Britain in 1841
amounted to 27,552, of whom 24,092 wen
located in England; 3,200 in Scotland; 118
in Wales ; and 51 in tho British isles. Ol
the 27,500 porters, messengers, and errand-
boys in Great Britain, very nearly one-fifth, or
4,U0.'i, wore lads under 20 years of age. The
number of individuals engaged in the same
occupation in the metropolis was, in 1841, no
less than 13,103, or very nearly half the num-
ber of porters, &c. throughout Great Britain.
Of this number 2,720, or more than a fifth sf
the class, may be considered to represent the
errand-boys, these being lads under 20 yean
of age.
At present, however, I purpose dealing
solely with tho public porters of the ma*
tropoUs. Those belonging to private in-
dividuals appear to partake (as I said of the
carmen's assistants) more of the characti*r
of servants paid out of the profits of the trade
than labourers whose wages form an intend
portion of the prime cost of a commodity.
Tho metropolitan porters are, liko the car-
men, of two classes; the ticketed, and un-
tieketed. I shall begin with the former.
The privileged porters of the city of Lon-
don were at one period, and untU within these
twenty years, a numerous, important, and to-
lerably prosperous class. Prescriptive light,
and Uie laws and by-laws of tho coxporation
of the city of Ijondon, have given to them the
sole privilege of porterage of every descrip-
tion, pronded it bo carried on in the precincti
of tho city. The only exception to this ex-
elusive right is, that any freeman may employ
his own servants in the porterage of his own
goods, and even that has been disputed.
The first mention of the privileged potters ii
in the early part of the 16th century.
It is almost impossible to classify the espe-
cial functions of the different classes of por-
ters ; for they seem to have become espensl
functions through custom and prescriptive
right, and they are not defined precisely in
any legitimate or municipal enactment. Even
at the present time, what constitutes the busi-
ness of a fellowship-porter, what of a tieket
porter, and on what an unprivileged porter
(known as a foreigner, becanse a non-frenaan)
may be employed, are matters of dispute
LONJiON LABOUR ANB THE LONDON POO^
8©5
A reference to city enactments, asnd tbe aid
of a higlilv intelligent meml>er of tbe frater-
nitr of ticket-porters, enables me to gr?e the
following account, wbicb is the more interest-
ing, as it relates to a class of labourers vhose
numbers, with tbe exception of the fellowship-
porters, bave been limited since 1838, and
who must necessarily die out irom want of
renewal In tbe earliest common council
enactments (June 27, 1600) on tbe subject of
porterage, the distinctions given, or rather
mtimatcd incidentally, are — " Tackle-house
porter, porter-packcr of tbe gooddes of Eng-
usb merchants^ streete-porter, or porter to tbe
packer for tbe said citie for strangers' goods."
As regards tbe term ticket porter, not men-
tioned in this enumeration, I have to obser\'e
that all porters are necessarily ticket-porteis,
which means that tbey can produce a ticket
or a document, showing that they are duly
qnalififid, and bave been ** admitted and al-
lowed to use the feate of a porter," by being
fireemen of the city and members of a porter's
company or fellowship. In some of tbe older
dty documents tackle and ticket-porters are
mentioned as if constituting one class; and
tbey did constitute one class when their la-
bour was identical, as to a great extent it was.
In 1712 they ore mentioned or indicated as
one body, (J though the first clause of the
common council enactment sets out that seve-
ral controversies and quarrels bave lately
arisen between the tackle -bouse porters and
the ticket-porters touching the labour or work
to them respectively belonging, notwithstand-
ing the several acts of this court heretofore
made. As these acts were vague and con-
tradictory, tbe controversies were a natural
consequence.
The tackle-porters were employed in the
weighing of goods for any purpose of shipping,
duty, or sale, which was formeHy carried on
in public in the city. But there was a city
oAcer known as the master-weigher, styled
•• Mr. Weigher," in tbe old acts, and the pro-
iktB of tbe weighing thus carried on publicly
fai the city went to the hospitals. In 1007 it
was enacted (I give the old orthography, with
its many contractions), " that no p'son or
paeons usinge tbe feate of a porter, or being
A fbrreynor, inbolder, wharfinger, or keye.
keeper, where any mercbaunts' gooddes are
to bee landed or laidd, or sucb-^e, shall at
any time after the making and pubUsbing of
this acte, bave, iise, keepe, or use within tbe
said citie or I'b'ties thereof, any manner
triangle, with beams, scales, and weigbtcs, or
any other balance, in any sorte, to weigh any
the goods, wares, or merchandize, of any mer-
chant or merchants, p'son or p'sons whatso-
ever, within tbe said citie or llb'ties thereof,
whereby the profiyte cominge and growinge to
the hosintals of the said cytie, by weigbinge at
the yron beams or at tbe great beame at the
weigh .bouse, or the profits of the Mr.
Weigher and porters of tbe some weigh -
bouae, may in sirnrise )m impeached, hin-
dered, or dininisbed^" The privilege of
*'■ weigbinge* fell gradually into desuetude;
but there is no record of tlte precise periods.
However, a wstige of it still remains ; as I
shall show in my acoonnt of the marketf«, as
it properly comes under that head. There
were 24 tackle -porters appointed ; each of tlie
1'^ great cit^ oampaniaa appointing two.
These lii companies are — the Mercers',
Grocers', Drapers', Fishmongers', Gold-
smitlis', Skinners', Ironrnongere ', Vintners',
and Cloth workers'. The 24 ajipointed porters
were known, it appears, as " midster-portcrs ;"
but as it was impossible that tbey could do
all th(3 work required, they colled to them the
aid of " fellowes," fi-eemon of the city, and
members of their society, who in timo seem
to bave been known simply as ticket-porters.
If a sufficiency of these fellows, or ticket-
porters, could not be made available on any
emergency, the maislers eould employ any
*• foreign porter not free «f this cyiiio, U5»ng
the feate of a porter-packer of tlie goods of
English merchants^ or the feate ofastreetc-
porter, at the tyme of the making of this acte
(1007), and wliicb at this present is com-
raemorante in the same citye or snbur'oes
thereof, changed with familye, or, being a
single man, bringing a good certificate in the
wryliiig, under the handes of the churchwar-
dens of the parish where be is resident^ or
other substantial! neighbours, to the number
of fewer, of his good conversocon and de-
meanor." This emplo}*ment, however, was
not to be to the prejudice of tbe privileged
porters ; and that the employment oflbreigners
was resorted to jealonsly, and only through
actual necessity, is suftioipntly shown by the
whole tenor of the enactments on the subject.
The very act which I bave just cited, as per-
mitting tbe employment of foreigners, con-
tains a complaint in its preamble that tbe
toleration of these men caused many *' of
badd and lewde condition daylie to resorte
from tbe most parte of this reolmo to the said
cytie, subufbs and places a^oining, procuring
themselves small babytacons, namely, one
chamber-roome fi.»r a poor foreignero and his
familye in a small cottage, with some other
as poore as himself, to the great increase and
pcstiinge of this cj-ttie i^ith poor people;
many of tbeni proringe shifters, lyringe by
cozeninge, stealinge and imbeazellinge men's
goods, as opportunity may serve them." A
somewhat curious precedent as regards the
character of the dwelUngs, being in ** one
chamber-roome," &c., for the abodes of the
workmen, for the slop- tailors and others in
our day, as I baare shown in my previous
letters.
The ticket-porters in 1810 are described as
3000 persons and upwards, which sufiQciently
shows their importance; and in 1712 a Com-
I mem Council enactment provides that they
I shall bave and enjoy the work or labour of
AM
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
unshipping, landing, earrying and housing of
pitch, tar, soap, ashes, oUpboards, wainscot,
fir-poles, masts, deals, oars, chests, tables,
flax and hemp, brought hither from Dantzic,
Melvyn, or any other part or place of the
countries commonly called the east countries.
Also of the imports from Ireland, " from any
of the plantations belonging to Great Britain,
and of all manner of coast-goods, (except
lead)." The tackle-house porters were, by
the same enactment, to *' have and enjoy the
work and labour of the shipping and all goods
imported and- belonging to Uie South Sea
Company, or to the Company of Merchants
trading to the East Indies, and of all other
goods and merchandizes coming from other
ports not before mentioned. The functions
of the tackle-house and ticket- porters are by
this regulation in 1712 made identical as to
labour, with merely the distinction as to the
place from which the goods were received:
and as the number of tackle-house porters
was properly 24, with them must be included,
I presume, all such ticket-porters, but not to
the full number ; nor is it Ukely that they will
be renewed in case of death. The taokle-
house porters that are still in existence, I was
told, are gentlemen. One is a wharifinger,
and claims and enjoys the monopoly of labour
on his own wharf. " The tackle-house porters,
or most of them, were labourers within these
twenty years." The tackle-house and ticket-
porters still epjoy, by law, the right to man
the work, wherever porterage is required ; or,
in other words, to execute the labour them
selves, or to engage men to do it, no matter
whether the work relate to shipping, to the
markets, or to mere street-porterage, such as
the conveyance of parcels for hire by men's
labour. The number of the ticket-porters
was, 20 years ago, about 600. At that time
to become free of the company, which has no
hall but assembles at Guildhadl, cost upwards
of 40/., but soon afterwards the expense was re-
duced to 6/. 3«. ^d. By a resolution of the Com-
mon Council, no new ticket-porters have been
appointed since 1838. Previously to becoming
a ticket-porter a man must have taken up his
freedom, no matter in what character, and
must produce certificates of good character
and security of two fVeemen, householders of
good credit, each in 100/., so that the owner of
any articles entrusted to the ticket - porter
may be indemnified in case of loss. The
ticket - porters are not the mere labourers
people generally imagine they are, but are,
or were, for their number does now not
exceed 100, decayed tradesmen, who resorted
to tliis means of livelihood when others hod
failed. They are also the sons of ticket-
porters. Any fVeeman of the city, by becoming
a member of the Tackle House and Ticket-
Porters' Company, was entitled to act as a
ticket-porter. They are still recognised at the
markets and the wharfs, but their pri\'ileges
ore constantly, and more and more infringed.
From a highly intelligent member of their
body I had the following statement : —
" It may be true, or it may not, that ticket-
porters ore not wanted now; but 15 or 16
years ago a committee of the Common Council,
the Market Conmaittee I believe it was, resolved
that the ticket-porters ought to be upheld, and
that 90/. shomd be awutled to us; but we
never got it, it was stopped by some after-
resolution. Pot it this way, sir. To get
bread for myself and my children I became
a ticket-porter, having incurred great expense
in taking up my fVeedom and all that. Well,
for this expense I enjoyed certain privileges,
and epjoy them still to some extent; but that's
only because I'm well known, and have had
great experience in porterage, and quickness,
as it is as much art as strength. But, sup-
posing that railways ha\'e changed the whole
business of the times, are the privileges I have
secured with my own money, and under the
sanction of all diie old laws of the city, to be
taken from me? If the privileges, though
they may not be many, of the rich city com-
panies are not to be touched, why are mine?
Every day they are infringed. A railway-
waggon, for instance, carries a load of meat to
Newgate Market Tickot-porters have the
undoubted right to unload the meat and cany
it to its place of sale ; but the railway sonants
do that, though only freemen employ their
own servants in porterage, and that only with
their own goods, or goods they are concerned
in. I fancy that railway companies ore not
freemen, and don't carry their own property
to market for sale. If we complain to the
authorities, we are recommended to take the
low of the offenders, and we can only lake it
of the person committing the actual offence.
And so we may sue a beggar, whom his em-
ployers may send down their line an hour
after to Hull or Halifax, as the saying is. If
we are of no further use, don't sacrifice, but
compensate us, and let us moke the best of it,
though we are none of us so young as we were;
some are vei^' old, and none are under 40,
because no new members have been mode for
some years. If a man's house be a hindrance
to public business, he must be paid a proper
price for it before it can be removed, and so
ought we. The Palace Court people were
compensated, and ought not we, who work
hard for an honest living, and have bought
the right to work in our portering, aocording
to the laws of the city, that secure the gold-
smiths in their right of assaying, and all the
rich companies in possession of tlieir lands
and possessions ? and so it ought to be with
our labour."
The porter-packers have been unknown in
the business of the city for some years ; their
avocation " in the packinge and shippinge of
strangers' gooddes," having barely survived
tlie expiring of the East India Compaoj*!
charter in ISW.
The street porters, or m«n who ocmpv. of
STRi:r.r i^orter with knot.
[f-'rom a Fkotoyravh.'
L0»nO19 JbABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
367
rather did occupy (for thoy are not now
always to be found there,) the principal bu-
siness parts of the city, are of course ticket-
porters, and by the law have exclusive right
of all porterage by hirfe firom ** aliens or
iSoreigners" in the streets, ^ freaman nag:
employ his own servant), even to t)le carrying
of a parcel of the burden of which any one
may wish to relieve himself. They usually,
hot not always, wear white aprons, and display
their tickets as badges. They do not confine
themselves to the streets, but^ sesort to the
wharfis in the fruit or any'bii^ season, and to
the meat and fish-markets, whenevet Uiey
tfamk there is the chance of a job^ and the
preference, as is not unfirequeiJly tbe case,
Bkely to fall to them, for they are known
to be trusty and experienced men. This
shifting of l&bour from one place to another
renders it impossible to give the number of
ticket-porters working in any particular lo-
cality.
The fbllowshfp-porters seem to have spnmg
into existence in consequence of the misunder-
standings of the tackle and ticket-porters, and
in this way, fellowships, or gangs of porters,
were confined, or confined themselves, to the
porterage of coal, com, malt and indeed, all
grain, salt, fruit, and wet fish (conceded to
them aller many disputes by the ticket^porters
of Billingsgate), and their privileges ore not
infringed to any such extent as tibose of the
tirkct-iwrters.
Tbe payments of ticket-porters were settled
in 1799.
To or from any of the quays, wharfs, stairs,
lines, or alleys at the waterside, between the
Tower and London Bridge to any part of
Lower Thames- street, Beer-lane, Water -lane,
Harp-lane, St. Dunstan's-hill, St. Maiy-hill,
Love-lane, Botolph-lane, Fudding-lane, and
Fish-street-hill :
For any load or parcel by knot or hand —
Not exceeding \ cwt. .
. Oi. u.
vt *• »l •
. 0 6
^ » .
. 0 9
2 „ .
. 1 0
For the like weights, and not exceeding
Poplar, Bow -church. Bishop Bonnet's Farm,
Kingsland - turnpike, Highbury -place, (Old)
Pancras-church, Portmau-aquare, Grosvenor-
square, Hyde-park-comer, Buokiiigham-gate,
Westminster Infirmary, Tothill-fidds Bride-
well, Strutton-ground, Horsefecry, Vauxhall,
Walworth-tumpike, and places of the like
distance —
Not ezcctding iewt
. %:M.
1 » .
. 3 3
4 • .
. 8 9
n * n •
. 0 0
I cite these regulationft to show the distances
to which porters were sent half a oentuxy ago,
and the charges. These charges, however,
vrere not always paid, as the persona employ-
ing parties often made bargains with them,
and some twenty years ago the legalised
charges were reduoed \d, in every di/. The
street-porters complain that any one may now,
or at all events does now, p]y for hire in the
city, and get higher prices than them.
All ticket-porters pay 8<; yearly towards the
funds of their society, which is called quarter-
age. Out of this » frw small i>ensions are
granted to old women, the widows of ticket-
porters.
The difference of the functions of the ticket
and fellowship-porters fieeiBS to be this — that
the ticket-porters cany dzy goods, or those
classed by weight or bulk, the fellowship,
porters cany measured goods.
dC8
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON ^OOH.
LONDON VAGRANTS.
Thx eyils oonseqQent upon the nncertainty of
labour I have already been at considerable
pains to point out There is still one other
mischief attendant upon it that remains to
bo exposed, and which, if possible, is greater
than any other yet adduced. Many classes of
labour are necessarily nncertam or fitfbl in
their character. Some woik can be pursued
only at certain seasons ; some depends upon
the winds, as, for instance, dock labour ; some
on fashion; and nearly all on the general
prosperity of the country. "Now, the labourer
who is deprived of his usual employment by
any of the above causes, must, unless he has
laid by a portion of his earnings while engaged,
become a burden to his parish, or the state,
or else he must seek work, either of another
kind or in another place. The mere fact of a
man's seeking work in different parts of the
country, may be taken as evidence that he is
indisposed to live on the charity or labour of
others ; and this feeling should be encouraged
in every rational manner. Hence the greatest
facility should be afforded to all labourers who
m«y be unable to obtain work in one locality,
to pass to another part of the country where
there may be a demand for their labour. In
floe, it is expedient that every means should
be given for extendins the labour-market for
the working classes ; that is to say, for allowing
them as wide a field for the exercise of their
cidling as possible. To do this involves the
establishment of what are called the " casual
wards" of the different unions throughout the
country. These are, strictly speaking, the free
hostelnes of the unemployed workpeople,
where thoy may be lodged and fed, on their
way to find work in some more active district
But the cstabliKhment of these gratuitous
hotels has called into existence a large class of
wayfarers, for whom they were never contem-
plated. They have been the means of afford-
ing groat encouragement to those vagabond or
erratic spirits who find continuity of applica.
tion to any task specially irksome to them, and
who are physically unable or mentally unwilling
to remain for any length of time in the same
place, or at the same work — creatures who are
vagrants in disposition and principle; the
wanilering tribe of this country ; the nomads
of the present day.
'* The right which every person apparently
destitute possesses, to demand food and shelter,
affords," says Mr. Pigott, in the Report on
Vagrancy, " ^reat facilities and encouragement
to idle and dissolute persons to avoid labour,
and pass their lives in idleness and piUage.
There can be no doubt that of the wayftran
who, in summer especially, demand admission
into workhouses, the number of those whom
the law contemplates under the titles of *■ idle
and disorderly/ and * rogues and vagabonds,'
greatly exceeds that of those who are honestlj
and Umd Me travelling in search of employ-
ment, ana that it is the former class whose
numbers have recently so increased as to
require a xemedy."
It becomes almost a necessary result of any
system which seeks to give shelter and food to
the industrious operative in his- way to look
for work, that it should be the means of
harbouring and fostering the idle and the
vagabond.
To refose an asylum to Uie vagrant is to
shut out the traveller; so hard is it to tell the
one from the other.
The prime cause of vagabondism is essen-
tially the non-inculcation of a habit of industry ;
that is to say, the faculty of continuous appli-
cation at a particular form of work, has not
been engendered in the individual's nund, and
he has naturally an aversion to any regular
occupation, and becomes erratic, wandering
from, this thing to that, without any settled or
determined object. Hence we find, that the
vagrant disposition begins to exhibit itself pre-
dsoly at that age when the first attempts are
made to inculcate the habit of continuous la-
bour among yonths. This will be seen by the
table in the opposite page (token firom the
Returns of the Houseless Poor), which shows
the greatest number of inmates to be between
the ages of fifteen and twenty-five.
The cause of the greater amount of vagrancy
being foimd among individuals between the
ages of fifteen and twenty-five (and it is not
by the table alone that this fact is borne ont),
appears to be the irksomeness of any kind
of sustained labour when first performed.
This is especially the case with yonth ; and
honce a certain kind of compulsion is neces-
sary, in order that the habit of doing the par-
ticular work may be engendered. Unfoita-
natel^, however, at this age the self-will of the
individual begins also to be developed, and
any compulsion or restraint becomes doub^
irksome. Hence, without judicious treatment,
the restraint may be enUrelj thrown off \q
the youth, and the labour be discarded by him,
before any steadiness of application has been
produced by constancy of practice. The caoie
of vagrancy then resolves itseU^ to a grsit
extent, into the harshness of either parents
or employers; and this it will be found ii
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
bUtt
[generally Uic accoimt given by the vagraiits
themselves. They have been treated with
severity, and being generally remarkable for
their self-will, have run away from their
home or master to live while yet mere lads in
some of the low lodging-houses. Here they
tind companions of the same age and character
fis themselves, with whom they ultimately set
out on a vagabond excursion through the
country, begging or plundering on their way.
Another class of vagrants consists of those
who, having been thrown out of employment,
have travelled through the country, seeking
work without avail, and who, consequently,
have lived on charity so long, that the habits
of wandering and mendicancy have eradicated
their former habits of industry, and the
industrious workman has become changed into
the habitual beggar.
THE
AGES OF APPLICANTS FOR SHELTER AT THE CENTRAL ASYLUM,
PLAYHOUSE.YARD, WHITECROSS-STREET, IN THE YEAR 1849.
Childrfn unt
Age. ^o. of Ap-
Months. pUcants.
ler ] .. 17
1 .. 4
2 .. 42
8 .. 21
4 .. 14
6 .. 14
6 .. 26
7 .. 30
8 .. 7
9 .. 14
10 .. 7
11 .. 5
201
No. of
AppUcanta.
28
Ag«.
Tears.
17 ....
No. of
AppUcanU.
380
49 ....
No. of
AppUcaoU.
84
Children of
18
336
50
108
19
385
61
28
20
296
62 ....
46
21 ....
835
63 ....
44
22 ....
886
64 ....
21
23
295
66
49
24
899
66 ....
35
25
122
57 ....
27
26
238
68 ....
35
27 ....
219
69 ....
27
28 ....
238
60 ....
35
29 ....
84
61 ....
7
30
294
62 ....
14
wis.
31
56
63 ....
7
32
91
64 ....
14
1 ....
33
105
65 ....
12
3 ....
22
84
98
66 ....
6
8
28
35
186
67
10
4
. .. 80
36
98
68 ....
7
5 ....
. .. 36
87
63
69 ....
4
6 ....
39
88
66
70
7
7 ....
56
39 ....
42
71 ....
4
8 ....
38
40 ....
117
72 ....
6
9 ....
92
41 ....
63
73 ....
7
10 ....
. . . 108
42
91
74 ...
6
11 ....
. .. 104
43 ....
49
75 ....
7
12 ....
. . . 107
44
42
76
6
18 ...
. .. 177
46 ....
91
77
2
14 ...
... 102
46
28
78
4
16 ...
. . . 268
47
85
79
0
16 ...
. - - 250
48
fifi •
80 ....
2
**" Having investigated the general causes of
depredation, of vagrancy, and mendicancy,"
^ay the Constabulary Commissioners, in the
Oofemment Reports of 1839 (p. 181), as
^iereloped by examinations of the previous
iires of criminals or vagrants in the gaols, we
find that scarcely in any cases is it ascribable
to the prefwure of unavoidable want or desti-
Uition, and that in the great mass of cases it
Arises from the temptation of obtaining pro-
perty with a less degree of labour than by
vvgtilar industry." Again, in p. 68 of the
sii&e Report, we are told that *^ the inquiries
tt«de by the most experienced officers into the
ctoses of vagrancy manifest, that in all but
three or four per cent the prevalent cause wns
the impatience of steady labour." My investi-
gations into this most important subject lead
me, 1 may add, to the same conclusions. In
order to understand the question of vagrancy
thoroughly, however, we must not stop here ;
we must find out what, in its turn, is the cause
of this impatience of steady labour; or, in
other words, we must ascertain whence comes
the desire to obtain property with a less degree
of labour than by r^^ar industry. Now, all
" steady labour" — that is to say, the continu-
ance of any labour for any length of time —
is naturally irksome to us. We are all innately
erratic — ^prone to wander both in thought and
.70
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
action ; and it i« only by a Tig^oroos eilbrt,
which Ls more or less pftinful to us at first,
that we can keop ouivohes to the steady pro-
socution of the some object, to the rei>eiited
perform once of the same acts, or even to con-
tinuous attention to the same subject. Jjabour
and effort ore more or less irksome to ns all.
There are, however, two means by which tliis
irksomt-ncss may bo not only removed, but
trail sfomicd into a positive pleasure. One is,
by the excitement of some impulse or purpose
in the mind of the workman ; and the other,
by the inculcation of a habit of working.
Purpose and habit ore the only two modes by
which labour can be rendered easy to us; and
it is precisely because the vagrant is deficient
in both that he has on aversion to work for
his living?, and wanders throuph the country
without an object, or, indeed, a destination. A
love of iiiduKtr}' is not a gilt, but a habit; it
is an accomplishment rutlker than an endow-
ment ; and our purposes and principles do not
arise spontaneously from Uic promptings of
our owu instincts and alfectiouH, but are the
mature result of education, example, and
deliberation. A vagrant, therefore. Is an
individual applying himself continuously to no
one thiug, nor pursuing; any one aim for any
length of time, but wandering from tliis subject
to that, as well as from one place to another,
because in him no industrial Imbits have been
formed, uor any principle orpuri»o80 impressed
upon his nature.
Pursiiin*: the subject still furtlior, we shall
find that tlie cause of the vagrant's wandering
through the country — and indeed through life
— purjioseless, objectless, and unprincipled^ in
the literal and strict meaning of the term, lies
mainly in the defective state of our educational
institutions ; for the vagrants, as a class, it
should be remembered, are not "educated."
AVe teach a lad reading, writing, and arith-
metic, and bcUeve that in so doing we are de-
veloping the moral flmctiiuis of liis nature;
whereas it is often this ability to rend merelj/ —
that is to say, to read without the least moral
perception — which becomes the instrument of
the youth's moral depra^-ity. The " Jack Shep-
pard" of Mr. Harrison Ainsworth is borrowed
from the circulating library, and read aloud in
the low lodging-houses in the evening by those
who have a little education, to their compani-
ions who have none ; and becanse the thief is
there furbished up into the heroL-.bec8use the
author has tricked him out with a sort of brute
insensibility to danger, made "noble blood
fiow in his veins," and tinselled him over with
all kinds of showy sentimentality — the poor
l>oys who listen, unable to see through the
trumpery deception, are led to look up to the
paltry thief as an ot^ject of admiration, and to
make his conduct the heau %d4al of thdr lives.
Of idl books, pertiaps none has ever bad so
baneM an effect upon the young xmnd, taste,
and principles as this. None has ever done
more to degrade literature to the level of the
lowest licentiousness, or to stamp the author
and the teacher as guilty of pandering to tlio I
most depraved propensities. Had Mr. Ains-
worth been with me, and seen how he had vi-
tiated the thoughts and pursuits of hundreds
of mere boys— had he heard the names of the
creatures of his morbid fiincy given to youths
at an age when they needed the best and trne^t
counsellors — ^had he seen these poor little
wretches, as I have seen them, grin with de
light at receiring the degrading titles of "Llue
skin," "Dick Turpin,* and "Jack Sheppard,"
be would, I am sure, ever rue tbe day which
led him to paint the most degraded and abon-
doned of our race as the most noble of human
beings. What wonder, then, that — taught
either in no school at all, or else in that mere-
tricioas one which makes crime a glor}', and
drosses up vice as virtue — these poor lads
should be unprincipled in ever}' act they do-
that they should be either literally actuated by
no principles at all, or else fired with the basest
motives and purposes, gathered from books
which distort highway robl>ory into an act of
noble enterprise, and dignify murder as juati-
tiable homicide ?
Nor are the habits of the young vagrant less
cultivated than his motives. The formation of
tliat particular habit which we term industr}*,
and by which the youth is fitted to obtain bis
living as a man, is perhaps the most diflScult
part of all education. It commences at on age
when tlio will of the indiriduol is beginning to
develope itself, and when the docile boy is
changed into tlie impatient young man. Too
great lenity, or too strict severity of govern-
ment, tliercfore, becomes at this pericnl of life
dangerous. If the rule bo too lax, the restless
youth, disgusted with the monotony of par-
suing the same task, or performing the same
acts, day by day, neglects his work — ^till habits
of indolence, rather than industry, are formed,
and he is ultimately thrust upon the world,
iiithout either the means or the disposition of
labouring for his living. If, on the other hand, <
the authority of the parent or master be too '
rigidly exercised, and the lad's power of endor-
ance be taxed too severely, then the self-will ,
of the youth is called into action ; and growing
restless and rebellious under the tyranny of his
teachers, he throws off their restraint, and
leaves them— -with a hatred, instead of a love
of labour engendered within him. That these ;
are two of the primary causes of vagraney, all |
my inquiries have tended to show. Tbeproxi- I
mate cause certainly lies in tbe impatience «! ■
steady labour; but tLe cause of this impatience i
is referable to iht noQ-formaticn of any habit .
of industiy in the vacprant, and the absence of
this habit of industry is usuallj diie to the ne-
glect or ih% tyranny of tbe lad's paaent or mai-
ter. This is no Uieoiy, be it remeEibefed.
Whether it be tbe master of the workboue.
where the vagrants congrogate every night —
whether it he the young vagrant himself, or
the more experienced trami>--that speaks upon
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOlt.
871
the subject, all agree in ascribing the Taga-
bondism of youth to the same cause. There
is, howerra-, another phase of Yagninoy still to
be esplained ; viz. the transition of the work-
ing man into the regular tramp and beggar.
TUs is the result of a habit of dependence,
pro4vcod in the operotiYe by repeated visits to
the easnal wards of the unions. A labouring
num, or mechanic, deprived of employment in
a partioular town, sets out on a journey to seek
work ki some other part of the country. The
mere fact of his so journeying to seek work
shows that he has a natural aversion to become^
a burden to the parish. He is no sooner, how-'
ever, become an inmate of the casual wards,
and breakfasts and sups off the bounty of the
workhouse, than he learns a most dangerous
lesson — he learns how to live by the labour of
others. His sense of independence may be
shocked at first, but repeated visits to the same
places soon deaden his feelings on this score ;
and he gradually, from continual disuse, loses
his habit of labouring, and ultimately, by long
custom, acquires a habit of " tramping" through
the eountiy, and putting up at the casual wards
of the unions by the way. Thus, what was
originally designed br a means of enabling the
labouring man to obtain work, becomes the in-
strument of depriving him of emplojTnent, by
rendering it no longer a necessity for him to
se^ it ; and the independent workman is
tnoisformed after a time into the habitual
tramper, and finally into the professional beg-
gfor and petty thief. Such characters, how-
ever, form but a small proportion of the great
body of vagabonds continually traversing the
coftntxy.
The vagrants are essentially the non- work-
ing, as distinguished from the hard-working,
men of England. They are the very opposite
to the industrious classes, with whom they ore
too often confounded. Of the really destitute
working-men, among the vagrants seeking re-
lief ot the casual wards, the proportion is very
small; the respectable mechanics being de-
terred by disgust from herding with the liltli,
infamy, disease, and vermin congregated in
the tramp-wards of the unions, and preferring
the endurance of the greatest privations before
subjecting themselves to it. " I have had this
view coi^rmed by several unfortunate per-
sons," says Mr. Boose, in the Poor-law Report
on Vagrancy : " they were apparently me-
chanics out of employment, who spoke of the
horrors passed in a tramp-ward, and of their
utter repugnance at visiting such places again."
•• The poor mechanic,** says the porter at the
Holbom workhouse, " will sit in the casiud
wards like a lost man — scared. It's shocking
to think a decent mechanic's houseless," he
ad&; ** when he's beat out, he's like a bird out
of a cage : he doesnt know where to go, or
how to get a bit" But the highest tribute ever
paid to the sterling honesty and worth of the
working men of this country, is to be found
in the testimony of the master of the Wands-
worth and Clapham Union. *« The destitute me-
chanics," he says, ** are entirely a different class
firom ihe regular vagrant ; they have different
habits, and, indeed, different features. They
are strictly honest. During the whole of my
experience, I never knew a distressed artisan
who applied for a night's shdter commit an
act of theft ; and I have seen them," he adds,
'* in the last stage of destitution. Occasionally
they have sold the shirt and waistcoat off
their backs, before they applied fbr admittance
into the workhouse ; while some of them have
been so weak firom long starvation, that they
could scarcely reach the gate, and, indeed, had
to be kept for several days in the infirmary,
before their strength was recruited sufficiently
to continue their journey." For myself I can
safely say, that my own experience fully bears
out this honourable declaration of the virtues
of our working men. Their extreme patience
under the keenest privations is a thing that the
wisest philosophers might envy ; their sympa-
thy and charity for their poorer brethren far
exceeds, in its humble way, the benevolence
and bounty of the rich ; while their intelli-
gence, considering the little time they have
for study and reflection, is almost marvellous.
In a word, their virtues are the spontaneous
exxn'essions of their simply natures; and their
rices are the comparatively pardonable ex-
cesses, consequent upon the intensity of their
toil. I say thus much in this place, because I
am anxious that the public should no longer
confbund the honest, independent working
men, with the vagrant beggars and pilferers of
the coimtry ; and that they should see that tho
one class is as respectable and worthy, as the
other is degraded and vicious.
Charactebistics op the vajeuous
Classes of Vagrakts.
I NOW come to the characteristics of vagrant
life, OS seen in the casual wards of the metro-
politan unions. The subject is one of the
most important with which I have yet had
to deal, and the facts I have collected aro
sufficiently startling to give the public an
idea of the great social bearings of the ques-
tion; for the young vagrant is the budding
criminal.
Previously to entering upon my inquiry into
this subject, I consulted with a gentleman
who had long paid considerable attention to
the question, and who was, moreover, in a po-
sition peculiarly fitted for gaining the greatest
experiepce, and arriving at the correctest no-
tions upon the matter. I consulted, I say,
with the gentleman refiorred to, as to the Poor-
law officers, firom whom I should be likely to
obtain the best information; and I was re-
ferred bf him to Mr. Knapp, the master of the
Wandsworth and Olapbam Union, as one of
the most intelligent and best-informed upon
the subject of vagrancy. I found ^at gentle.
man aU that he had been lepresented to mo
3r>
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
as being, and obtoineil from }iim the following
statement, which, as an analysis of the va-
grant chanictcr, and a description of the habits
and propensities of the young vagabond, has,
perhaps, never been surpassed.
He had filled the office of master of the
Wandsworth and Clapham Union for three
years, and immediately before that he waH the
relieving officer for the same union for up-
wards of two years. He was guardian of
Clapham parish for four years previously to
his being elected relieving officer. He was a
member of the first board of guardians that
was formed under the new Poor-law Act, and
he has long given much attention to the
habits of the vagrants that have come under
his notice or care. He told me that he con-
sidered a casual ward necessary in ever}'
union, because there is always a migratory
population, consisting of labourers seeking
employment in other localities, and destitute
women travelling to their husbands or friends.
He thinks a casual ward is necessary for the
shelter and relief of such parties, since the
law will not permit them to beg. These,
however, are by far the smaller proportion
of those who demand admittance into the
casual ward. Formerly, they were not five
per cent of the total number of casuals. The
remainder consisted of youths, prostitutes,
Irish families, and a few professional beggars.
The youths formed more than one-half of the
entire number, and tlieir ages were fVom
twelve to twenty. The largest number were
seventeen years old — indeed, he adds, just
that age when youth becomes disengaged from
parental control. These lads had generally
nm away, either from their parents or masters,
and many had been reared to a life of va-
grancy. They were mostly shrewd and acute
youths; some had been verj' well educated.
Ij^norance, to use the gentleman's own words,
is certainly not the prevailing characteristic of
the class ; indeed, with a few exceptions, he
would say it is the reverse. These lads are
mostly distinguished by their aversion to con-
tinuous labour of any kind. He never knew
them to work — they are, indeed, essentially
the idle and the vagabond. Their great in-
clination is to be on the move, and wandering
from place to place ; and they appear, he says,
to receive a great deal of pleasure fkt)m the
assembly and conversation of the casual ward.
They are physically stout, healthy lads, and
certainly not emaciated or sickly. They belong
especially to the able-bodied class, being, as
he says, full of health and mischief. When in
London, they live in the day-time by holding
horses, and carrying parcels from the steam-
piers and railway termini. Some loiter about
the markets in the hope of a job, and others
may be seen in the streets picking up bones
and rags, or along the water -side searching
for pieces of old metal, or anything that may
be sold at the marine-store shops. They
have nearly all been in prison more than once,
and several a greater niunber of times than
they are years old. They are the most dis-
honest of all thieves, having not the least
respect for the property of even the members
of their own dass. He tells me he has fre-
quently known them to rob oDe another.
They are very stubborn and self-willed. Tfa^
have often broken every window in the oeknm-
room, rather than do the required wcm^. They
are a most difficult class to govemY and ue
especially restive under the least restraint;
they can ill brook oontrol, and they find gieit
delight in thwarting the anthorities of the
workhouse. They are partioolarly fond of
amusements of all kinds. My infonnant has
often heard them discuss the merits of the
different actors at the minor theatres and
saloons. Sometimes they will elect a diair-
man, and get up a regular debate, and make
speeches from one end of the ward to the
other. Many of them will make veiy olerer
comic orations; others delight in singing
comic songs, espedally those upon the work-
house and g<^ls. He never knew them love
reading. They mostly pass under fletitioos
names. Some will give the name of ''John
Russell," or "Robert Peel," or ''Biohard
Cobden." They often come down to the
casual wards in large bodies of twenty or
thirty, with sticks Mdden down the legs of
their trousers, and with these th^ rob and
beat those who do not belong to their own
gang. The gang will often consistof a hundred
lads, all under twenty, one-fourth of whom
regulariy come together in a body; and in the
casual ward they generally arrange where to
meet again on the following night. In the
winter of 1846, tho guardians of Wandsworth
and Clapham, sympathising with their ragged
and wretched appearance, and desiroas of
affording them the means of obtaining an
honest livelihood, gave my informant inttiuo-
tions to offer an asylum to any who mi^t
<;hoose to remain in the workhouse. Under
this arrangement, about fifty were admitted.
The m^ority were under seventeen years ef
age. Some of them remained a few days-
others a few weeks— none stopi>ed longer than
three months ; and the generality w them
decamped over the wall, taking with them the
dothes of the imion. The ooidhiement, re-
straint, and order of the workhouse were espe-
dally irksome to them. This is the character
of the true vagrant, for whom my informant
considers no provision whatsoever should be
made at the unions, believing as he does that
most of them have settlements in or around
London. The casual words, he tells me, he
knows to have been a great encouragement to
the increase of these characters. Several of
the lads that have come under his care had
sought shelter and concealment in the casual
wards, after having absconded from their
parents. In one instance, the frither and mo-
ther of a lad had unavailing^ sought their
son in every direction : hft diacorered that the
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
y,.\
yoitih had ran away, and he sent him home in
the custody of one of the inmates ; but when
the hoy got to within two or three doors of his
iaUier's residence, he tuined roimd and scam-
pered off. The mother after^'ords came to
the union in a state of frantic grief, and said
that he had disappeared two yeai*s before.
Hy informant believes that the boy has never
been heard of by his pftients since. Others
he has restored to their parents, and some of
the young vagrants who have died in the
union have, on their death-beds, disclosed the
names and particulars of their families, who
have been always of a highly respectable cha-
xacter. To these he has sent, and on their
visits to their children scenes of indescribable
grief and anguish have taken place. He tells
me he is convinced that it is Uie low lodging-
houses and the casual wards of the unions
that offer a ready means for youths absconding
fkvjm their home^, immediately on the least
disagreement or restraint. In most of the
eases that he has investigated, he has found
that the boys have left home after some rebuke
or quarrel with their parents. On restoring
one boy to his father, the latter said that,
though the lad was not ten years old, he had
been in almost every workhouse in London ;
and the father bitterly complained of the
casual wards for offering shelter to a youth of
such tender years. But my informant is con-
vinced that, even if the casual words through-
out the country were entirely closed — the low
lodging-houses being allowed to remain in
their present condition — the evil would not be
remedied, if at all abated. A boy after run-
ning away from home, generally seeks shelter
in one of the cheap lodging-houses, and there
he makes acquaintance with the most depraved
of both sexes. The boys at the house become
his regular companions, and he is soon a con-
fiimed vagrant and thief like the rest. The
youths of the vagrant class are particularly
distinguished for their libidinous propensities.
They frequently come to the gate with a young
prostitute, and with her they go off in the morn-
ing. With this girl, they will tramp through
the whole of the country. They are not re-
markable for a love of drink, — indeed, my
informant never saw a regular vagrant in a
state of intoxication, nor has he known them
to exhibit any craving for liquor. He has
had many drunkards under his charge, but
the vagrant is totally distinct, having propen-
sities not less vicious, but of a very different
kind. He considers the young tramps to be
generally a class of lads possessing the keenest
intellect, and of a highly enterprising cha-
racter. They seem to have no sense of dan
ger, and to be especially delighted with such
acts as involve any peril. They are likewise
characterised by their exceeding love of mis-
chief. The property destroyed in the union
of which my informant is the master has been
of considerable value, consisting of windows
broken, sash-frames demolished, beds and
bedding torn to pieces, and i-ags burnt. Tliey
will frequently come down in large gangs, o;i
purpose to destroy the property in the unir>ii.
They generally ai-e of a most restless and
volatile disposition. They have great quick-
ness of perception, but little power of con-
tinuous attention or perseverance. They have
a keen sense of the ridiculous, and are not
devoid of deep feeling. He has often known
them to be dissolved to tears on his remon-
strating with them on the course they were
folloAving — and then they promise amend-
ment; but in a few days, and sometimes hours,
they would forget all, and return to their old
habits. In the summer they make regular
tours through the country, \isiting all places
that they have not seen, so that there is
scarcely one that is not acquainted with every
part within 100 miles of London, and many
with all England. They are perfectly organ-
ised, so that any regulation affecting their
comforts or interests becomes known among
the whole body in a remarkably short space of
time. As an instance, be informs me that on
putting out a notice that no able-bodied man
or youth would be received in the casual ward
after a certain day, there was not a single
application made by any such party, the regu-
lar vagrants having doubtless informed each
other that it was useless seeking admission ai
this union. In the winter the young vagrants
come to London, and find shelter in the asy-
lums for the houseless poor. At this season
of the year, the number of vagrants in tlio
casual wards would generally bo diminisheil
one-half. The juvenile vagrants constitute
one «)f the main sources from which tlie cri-
minals of the coimtrj' are continually recruited
and augmented. Being repeatedly committed
to prison for disorderly conduct and misde-
meanour, the gaol soon loses all terrors for
them ; and, indeed, they will frequently destroy
their own clothes, or the property of the
union, in order to be sent there. Hence they
soon become practised and dexterous thieves,
and my informant has detected several bur-
glaries by the property found upon tlieni.
The niunber of this class is stated, in the
Poor-law Report on Vagrancy, to have been,
in 1848, no less than 1G,086, and they form
one of the most restless, discontented, vicious,
and dangerous elements of society. At the
period of any social commotion, they are sure
to be drawn towards the scene of excitement
in a vast concourse. During the Chartist
agitation, in the June quarter of the yeai
1848, the number of male casuals admitted
into the Wandsworth and Clapham Union
rose from 2501 to 3068, wliile tlie females
(their companions) increased from 070 tn
1388.
Of the other classes of persons admitted into
the casual wards, the Irish generally form n
large proportion. At the time when juvenile
vagrancy prevailed to an aliu-ming extent, the
Irish hardly dared to show tliemselves in tin.
:r,k
LONDON LAliOCR AND THE LONDON POOR,
rfisiml wftrdii, tar the la^ls would beat them and
plumler them of Trhatevor they might have —
fithor the produoe of th«'ir bcggingf or the
ra'4;,'C(l kit thcj carried with them. Oilen my
i-itbimant has had to qnell violent dieturbancefi
in the night among these characters. ThA Irish
tramp generally makes his appearance with a
h\T\i,ii family, and frequently with tlm-e or four
Kt»nerjiti(ma together — grandfather, giiindmo.
ihor, father, and mother, and cliildren — all
cominp at the same time. In the year ending
June, i848, the Irish vaprranta increased to so
jH'ent nn extent that, of the entire number of
rasunls rdicved, more than one-^liird in the
first tliree quarters, and more than two-thirds
in the last quarter, were from the sister island.
< )f the Irish vagrants, the worst class — ^Ihat if»
til ft poorest and most abjeot — came over to
tljis i'«»untry by way of Newport, in Wales. The
i>:pi«nso of the passage to that port was only
'is. i)d. : whereas the cost of the voyage to \a-
M rpool and I-.ondon was considerably more,
fiiiil consequently the class broupfht over by
t]:at way were loss destitute. The Irish va-
(.'rants were far more orderly than the English.
Out of the vast number receivetl into the casual
vard c»f this union during the distress in Ire-
l:in<l, it is remarkable that not one ever com-
mittal on act of insubordination. They were
K- nendly very grutefnl for tlie relief ntforded,
and appeared to subsist entirely by begging.
Some of them were not particularly fon«l of
uork, but they were invariably honest, says my
informant — at least so far as bis knowloilgi*
wont. 'J'hey were exceedingly filthy in their
iianils, and many diseased.
Tliose constitute the two larcje and principal
clftssu'S of vagrants. The rrnminder penc-
lally consist of persons temporarily destitute,
whi'reiis the others are habitually so. The
t«>niporarily destitute are chii'fly railway and
nj^riiriiltural labourers, and a tVw mechanics
trnvclling in search nf employment. 'l'hps<'
are ea'^ily distinguishable from the regular va-
^'i*ant ; indeed, a glance is sutticiL'Ulto the prac-
tised eye. They are the better class of casuals,
n!i«l those for whom the wards are expressly
designed, but they only form a very small
proportion of the vagrants ap]>lying for sh<dter.
In the height of vagrancy, they formed not one
P'»r cent ot* the entire number admitted. In-
deed, such was the state of the cnsual v ards.
thr.t the destitute mechanics and laboun*rs
prc!*«»rred walking through the night to avail-
ing tlH.'msolvcs oi'tho accommodation. Lately,
thi», ariisans and labourers have increased
greatly in proportion, owing to the system
a loptcd for the exclusion of tlie haliitual va-
f^rant, and the consequent drclino of their
number. The working man travelling in search
of enipbnment is now generally admitted into
\^ Ijat are called the recei%'ing wards of the work-
hou-!e, instead of the tramp-room, ami li<» is
usually exceedingly grateful for the accommo-
dnlion. My informant tells me that persons of
this elass seldom return to the workhouse after
one night's shelter, and this 19 a conclmdve
proof that the re#?ular workings-man seldom
passes into an haliitnal beggar. Thej ar« an
entirely distinct class, baring diflWrent habifci,
and, indeed, difRn«nt featnreB, and Tom assured
that they are strictly honest. During the whde
experience of my informant, he never knew
one who applied for a night's shelter commit
one act of dishonesty, and he ha.<j seen them in
the last stage of destitution. Occasionally they
have sold the shirt and waistcoat off their back
before they applied for admittance into the
workhouse, while some of them hare been so
weak from long starvation, that they eonld
scarcely reach the gate. Such persons are
always allowed to remain sereral dajrs to re-
cruit their strength. It is for such as these
that my informant considers the casual wanis
indispensable to every well-conducte<l union—
whereas it is his opinion that the habitual va-
grant. iLS contradistinguished from the casinl
vagrant or wayfaring poor, should be placed
under the management of the police, at the
charge of the union.
Let me, howe>*er, first run over, as briefly as
possible, the several classes of vagrantA falling
under the notice of th<i parish authoriticii. The
dilVerent kinds of vagrants or trami>s to be
found in the casual wards of the nnioos
throughout the country, moy be described as
follows: — "The more important class, from
its increasing numbers," says Mr. Bonse, in the
Poor-law Report upon Vagrancy, " is that of
the regular ycmng English vagabond, generally
the native of a large town. He is either anm-
away apprentice, or he has l»een driven from
home by the cnielty of his parents, or sllowwl
by tliem to go wild in the streets : in some
cases he is an orphan, and has lost his flither
and mother in eariy life. Ha\ing no ties to
bind him, he travels abotit the countiy. being
sure of a meal, and a roof to slielter him at
night. The youths of this class are primipolly
of from fifteen to twenty-five years of age.
They often travel in parties of two or three—
frequently in large bodies, with young women,
as abandonetl as themselves, in company."
Approaching these in character are the yontig
countrj-men who have absconded — ^perhaps for
come petty poaching oflFenec — and to whom the
facility for loading an idle vagabond life has
prr>ved too great a temptation.
'J'he next class of vngrants is the stordy
English mendicant. He, though not a con-
stant occupant of the tramp-ward in the wnrk-
liouse, frequently makes his appearance th*^re
to partake of the shelter, when he has spent hii
last shilling in dissipation.
Besides these, there are a few calling them-
selves agricultural labourers, who ore really
such, and who are to be readily distingui-fhcil.
There are also a few mechnnics— chir*fly tailors,
shoemakers, and masons, who are occiisionally
•lestitute. The amount of those really desti-
tute, however, is very small in proportion to the
numbers relieved.
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON FOOR.
375
Of the -age And sex of tnmps, the general
propoxxion seems to be Door-fifiha male and
one-fifth female.
Of the female English tramps, little can be
said, but that they are in great part pox^stitutes
of the lowest class. The proportion of really
destttnte women in the tramp-wards (generally
widows with yomig childjsen) is greater than
that of men — ^probably from the ability to brave
the cold night wind being less in the female,
and the love of the children getting the shelter,
aboTe dread of vile association. Girls of thir-
teen or fourteen years old, who run away from
mastere or factory emplo^-ment, often find
abater in the tramp-waid.
The Irish, who, till very recently, formed the
mfltfority of the applicants for casual relief, re-
main to be described. These con scarcely be
classified in any other way than as those who
oome to Englfuid to labour, and those who
«ome to beg. The former class, however, yield
readily to their disposition to idleness — ^the
difficulties of providmg supper, breakfast, and
lodging for themselves being removed by tlie
worichouse. This class are physically superior
to the mass of Irish vagrants. It appears that
for very many years considerable numbers of
these have annually come to England in the
spring to work at hay-hon-est, remaining for
4xnni-harvest and hop-picking, and then have
carried home their eaiiiings in the autumn,
seldom resorting to begging. Since the failure
of the potato crop greater numbers have come
to EIngland, and the tramp- word has been tlieu- ;
principal refuge, and an inducement to many ,
to remain in the country. A great many har-
vest men land at Newport and the Welsh ports ;
but by far the greoter proportion of the Irish
in Wales are, or were, women with small chil-
dren, old men apparently feeble, pregnant wo-
men, and boys about ten yeara old. They arc
broQig^t over by cool -vessels as a return cargo
(living bollost) at very low fores, {2s, Orf. is tlie
highest sum), hudtlled together like pigs, and
communicating disease and vermin on their
passage.
Harriet Huxtable, the manng< r of the tramp-
house at Newport, says : — " There is hardly an
Irish family that came over and applied to
me, but we have found a member or two of it
ill, some in a shocking filLliy state. They
dont live long, diseased as they are. They
are very remarkable; they will eat salt by
basins' full, and drink a great quantity of
water after. I have frequently known those
who could not have been hungry, eat cabbage-
leaves and other refuse from the ash-heap. 1
really believe they would eat almost anytliing."
^* Aremarkable factis,that all the Irish whom
I met on my route between Wales and Lon-
don," says Mr. Boase, " said they came from I
Cork county. Mr. John, the reUeving officer
at Cardifif, on his examination, says, Hhat not
1 out of every 100 of the Irish come from any
other county than Cork.' "
In the township of Warrington, tlie number
of tramps rdieved between the 2iHh of March,
1847, and the 25th of March, 1848, was .-—
Irish ..... 12,0S8
English .... 4,701
Scotch . . . . 42T
Natives of other places . 156
Making a total of . 17,922
Of the original occupations or trades of the
vagrants applying for relief at the different
unions throughout the country, there are no
re turns. As, however, a considerable portion of
these were attracted to London on the opening
of the Metropolitan Asylums for the Houseless
Poor, we may, by consulting the Society's
yearly Reports, where an account of the
callings of those receiving shelter in such
establishments is always given, be enabled
to arrive at some rough estimate as to the
state of destitution and vagrancy existing
among the several classes of labourera and
artisans for several years.
The following table, being an average drawn
from the returns for seventeen years of the
occupation of the persons admitted into the
Asylums for the Houseless Poor, which I have
been at considerable trouble in forming, ex-
hibits the only available information upon this
subject, synopticoUy arranged : —
Factory emijloyment . . . 1 in every 3
Hawkers 4
Labom'crs (agricultural) ... 12
Seamen 12
Charwomen and washen^omen , . 13
Labourers (general) . . . . 17
Waddingmakei-s .... X\b
Smiths and ironfoimders ... 36
Weavers 38
Brickmakers 3J)
Roperaakers 41
Braziers 55
Papermakers and slniuers ... 58
Skintlressei*s 58
Baskctmakei*s 02
Bricklayers, plasterers, aud slaters. . 62
Gardeners 67
Filecuttcrs 70
Sawyers 73
Turners 74
Wireworkers 75
Cutlers 77
Hamessmokers and saddlers . . 80
Stonemasons 88
Dyers 94
Cliimneysweeps 07
Errand boys 91)
Porters 99
Painters, plumbers, and glaziers . 119
Cabinetmakers and uphoLsterers . 128
Shoemakers 130
Compositors and printers . . . 142
Brushmakers 145
Carpentci*8, joiners, and wheelwrights 150
Bakers 167
No. LXXVI.
.370
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
Drabsfounders . • • 1 io every 177
Tailors 177
Combmakers 178
Coopers 178
Surveyors 198
FcUmongers 203
(ilosscutters 2'^0
Bedsteadmakcrs 235
Averu{^e for all London • • • 21 U
Butchers 248
Bookbinders 255
Mendicants 250
Engineers 205
Miners 207
Lacemakers 273
Poolterers 273
Furriers 274
Straw-bonnetmakers .... 277
Trimming and buttonmakers . . 277
Ostlers and grooms • • • • 280
Drovers 297
Hairdressers 329
Pipemakers 340
Clerks and shopmen .... 340
Hatters 350
Tinmen 354
Tallowchandlers .... 304
Servants 877
Corkcuiters 380
Jewellers and watchmakers . • 411
Umbrella-makers . * . . 41A
Sailmakers 455
Carvers and gilders .... 500
Gunsmiths 554
Trunkniokers 509
Choirmakers 580
Fishmongers 648
Tanners 048
Musicians 730
Leathcrdrcsscrs and curriers . . 802
Coachmokcrs 989
Engravers 1,133
Shipwrights 1,358
Artists 1,374
Drapers 2,047
Milliners and dressmakers . • 10,390
Of the disease and fever which mark the
course of the vagrants wheresoever they go, I
have before spoken. The " tramp.fever," as
the most dangerous infection of the casual
wards is significantly termed, is of a typhoid
character, and seems to be communicated
particularly to those who wash the clothes of
the parties suffering from it. This was like-
wise one of the characteristics of cholera.
That the habitual vagrants should be the
means of spreading a pestilence over the
country in their wanderings will not be
wondered at, when we find it stated in the
Poor-law Report on Vagrancy, that ** in very
few workhouses do means exist of drying
the clothes of these paupers when they come
in wet, and it often happens that a consider-
able number arc, of necessity, placed together
wet, filthy, infested ^ith vermin, and diseased.
in a small, unventilated spaoe." ^ The miyo-
rity of tramps, again," we are told, ^ have a
great aversion to being washed and cleaned.
A regular tramper cannot bear it ; but a dis-
tressed man would be thankful for it"
The cost incurred for the cure of the vi-
grant sick in 1848, was considerab^ more than
the expense of the food dispensed to them.
Out of 13,400 vagrants relieved at the Wands-
worth and Clapham Union in 1848, there
were 332 diseased, or ill with the fever.
The number of vagrants relieved dirough-
out England and Wales in the same year was
1,047,975; and supposing that the sickness
among these prevailed to the same extent ts
it did among the casuals at Wandswcrth
(according to the Vagrancy Report, it appears
to have been much more severe in many
places), there would have been as many as
40,812 sick in the several unions througboai
the country in 1848. The cost of relieviiig
tho 332 sick at Wandsworth was 3001.; at
tho same rate, the expense of the 40,612 sick
thi-oughout the country unions would amoont
to 30,878/. According to the above propor-
tion, the number of sick relieved in the metro-
politan unions would have been 7078, vnA. the
cost for their relief would amount to 09311.
Of the tide of crime which, like that of pes-
tilence, accompanies the stream of vagrants,
there are equally strong and conclusive proo&.
** The most prominent body of delinquents in
the rural (Ustricts,** says the Report of the
Constabulary CommissionerB, *' are vagrants
and these vagrants appear to consiet of two
classes : firsts the habitual depred^on, house-
breakers, horse-stealers, and common thieves;
secondly, of vagrants, properly so oalled, who
seek alms as mendicants. Betidea thoee
olasaes who travel from fair to ftir, and from
town to town, in quest of dishonest gains, there
are numerous classes who make incorsioos
from the provincial towns upon the a^jftocnt
rural districts."
*' The classes of depredators who peram-
bulate the country (says the same B^ort)
are the vagrants, properly so called. Upwards
of 18,000 commitments per annum of persons
for the offence of vagrancy, mark the extent
of the body from which they are taken.
*< It will be seen that vagrancy, or the halat
of wandering abroad, under c^ur either of
distress, or of some ostensible, though illegal
occupation, having claims on the sympathies
of tlie uninformed, constitutes one great source
of delinquency, and especially of juvenile de-
linquency. The returns show that the vagrant
classes pervade every part of ther country,
rendering property insecure, propagating per-
nicious habits, and afllicting the minds of th«»
sensitive with false pictures of suffering, and
levying upon them an offensive impost for the
relief of that destitution for which a heavy
tax is legaUy levied in the shape of poor's
rates.
" Mr. Thomas Narrill, a aergeant of the
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOjR.
377
Bristol police, was asked — *What proportion
of the Tagrants do you think are thieves, that
make it a point to take anything for which
they find n convenient opportunity ? ' * We
have found it so invariably.' » Have you ever
seen the children who go about as vagrants
turn afterwards fh>m vagrancy to common
thieving, — thieving wholly or chiefly?' *We
hinre found it several times.* * Therefore the
suppression of vagrancy or mendicity would
be to that extent the suppression of juvenile
delinquency ? * * Yes, of course.*
Mr. J. Perry, another witness, states : — "I
bdieve vagrancy to be the first step to-
wards the committal of felony, and I am
supported in that belief by the number of
juvenile vagrants who are brought before the
magistrates as thieves."
An officer, appointed specially to take mea-
sures against vagrancy in Manchester, was
asked, — ** Does your experience enable you to
Btato that the large proportion of vagrants are
thieves too, whenever they come in the way
of thieving ? " " Yes, and I should call the
larger proportion there thieves." " Then, from
what you have observed of them, would you
say that the suppression of vagrancy would go
a great way to the suppression of a great
quantity of depredation?" "I am sure of
it"
The same valuable Report furnishes us with
a table of the numbers and character of the
known depredators and suspected persons fre-
quenting five of the principal towns; fh)m
which it appears that in these towns alone there
are 28,706 persons of known bad character.
According to the average proportion of these
to the population, there will be in the other
large towns nearly 82,000 persons of a similar
chttiactor, and upwards of 09,000 of such
persons dispersed throughout the rest of the
country. Adding these together, we shall
have as many as 130,000 persons of known
bad character living in England and Wales,
without the walls of the prisons. To form an
accurate notion of the total number of the
criminal population, we must add to the above
amount the number of persons resident within
the walls of the prisons. These, according to
the last census, are 19,888, which, added to the
130,000 above enumerated, gives within a
Ihtetion of 150,000 individuals for the entire
criminal population of the country.
In order to arrive at an estimate of the
number of known depredators, or suspected
persons, continually tramping through the
country, we must deduct from the number of
persons of bad character without the walls of
the prisons, such as are not of migratory
habits ; and it will be seen on reference to the
table above given, that a large proportion of
the classes there specified have usually some
fixed residence (those with an asterisk set
before them may be said to be non-migratory).
As many as 10,000 individuals out of the 20,000
and odd above given certainly do not belong
to the tramping tribe ; and we may safely say
that there must be as many as 85,000 more in
the country, who, though of known bad cha-
racter, are not tramps like the rest. Hence,
in order to ascertain the number of depre-
dators and suspected persons belonging to the
tramping or vagrant class, we must deduct
10,000 + 35,000 from 85,000, which gives us
40,000 for the number of known bad characters
continually traversing the country.
This sum, though arrived at in a very
different manner from the estimate given in
my last letter, agrees very nearly with the
amount there stated. We may therefore, I
think, without fear of erring greaUy upon the
matter, assert that our criminal population,
within and without the walls of the prisons,
consists of 150,000 individuals, of whom nearly
one-third belong to the vagrant class; while,
of •those without the prison walls, upwards of
one half are persons who are continually
tramping through the country.
The number of commitments for vagrancy
throughout the country is stated, in the
Constabulary Report, at upwards of 18,000
per annum. This amount, large as it is, will
not surprise when we learn from Mr. Pigott's
Report on Vagrancy to the Poor-law Com-
missioners, that "it is becoming a system with
the vagrants to pass away the cold months by
fortnighUy halts in different gaols. As soon
as their fourteen days have expired they make
their way to some other union-house, and
commit the same depredation there, in order
to be sent to gaol again."
** There are some characters," say the officers
of the Derby Union, in the same Report, ** who
come on purpose to be committed, avowedly.
These have generally iteh, venereal disease,
and lice, all together. Then there are some
who tear their clothes for the purpose of being
committed."
I shall now give as lUll an account as lies
in my power of the character and consequences
of vagrancy. That it spreads a moral pesti-
lence through the country, as terrible and as
devastating as the physical pest which accom-
panies it wherever it is found, all the evidence
goes to prove. Nevertheless, the facts which
1 have still to adduce in connexion with that
class of vagrancy which does not necessarily
come under the notice of the parish autho-
rities, are of so overpowering a character, that
I hope and trust they may be the means of
rousing every earnest man in the kingdom to
a sense of the enormous evils that are daily
going on around him.
The number of vagrants taken into custody
by the police, according to the Metropolitan
Criminal Returns for 1848, was 6598 ; they
belonged to the trades cited in the subjoined
table, where I have calculated the proper-
tionato number of vagrants furnished by
each of the occupations, according to the
total number of individuals belonging to the
class.
3ra LONDON
Toolmakers linoverj 33*9
LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOE.
. MO-5
Hatters and trimmers.
350-4
01as8makers» &e.
Labourers . . 45*9
Muufliaiis .
, ,
292-0
Butchere .
. 608-0
"Weavers . . . 756
Tnmem, Ac
,
308*8
Laundresses
. 623-8
CuUen . . . 821
Shoemakers
,
310*5
. 700S
FreDch poHsbers . 109*7
Surveyors .
, ,
320*5
Grocers
. 712-2
CJlovera. Ac . . llJi-8
Average for all London
334*7
General and marine |
Corkcutters . .114*3
Gardeners .
341*8
. 721*2
BrasBfoundcrt . . 11))1
Tobacconists
344*0
Jewellers .
. 922-7
Smiths . . . 1-iOl
Painters .
859*5
Artificial flowermakers 1025-0 |
Bricklayers . . li;^*4
Bakers .
364*4
Bmshmakers .
. 1077-5
P ftpermaken, stainem,
Tailors
373*2
IrooRioDgeis •
. 1177-0
Ac 1881
Milliners .
4.'V1*7
Watchmakers .
. 1430H)
Fishmongers . . 207-3
Clerks
453-7
Engineei-s .
. 1433-2
Curriers . . . 2110
Printers .
461*6
Dyers.
. 1030^
Masons . . . 2:U*4
Sweeps
510*5
Servants
. 2444-9
Tinkers and tinmen . 230*3
Opticians .
530*0
Draoers
BoM^linders
. 2450*5
Saw>'ers . . . 248*1
Saddlers .
542*7
. 2740-5
Carvers and gilders . 250*3
542*8
The causes and encouragements of vagrancy
are two-fold, — direct and indirect. The roving
flisposition to which, as 1 have shown, vagrancy
is direciljf ascribabl(% proceeds (as I have said)
partly from a certain phyiiical conformation or
temperament, but mainly from a non -inculca-
tion of industritd hubitK and moral purposes
in youth. The causes from which the vat^a-
bondism of tlio young indirectlj/ proc4!uds
arc: —
1. The neglect or tyranny of parcntK or
masters. (ThLs appears to be a UMMt prolific
source.)
2. Bad companions.
3. Bad bocks, which acl like the bod com •
ponions in depraving the taste, and teaching
the youth to consider that approvable which
to all rightly constituted minds is morally
loathsome.
4. Bad amusements — as penny-theatres,
wliere the scenes and eharacters described in
the bad books are represented in a still more
attractive form. Mr. Ainsworth's " Bookwood,'*
with Dick Tunnn *^ in his habit as he lived in,"
is now in the course of being performed nightly
at one of the East-end saloons.
5. Bad institutions — as, for instance, the
different refuges scattered throughout the
coimtry, and which, enabling persons to live
without labour, are the means of attracting
large numbers of ihe most idle and dissolute
classes to the several cities where the charities
are dispensed. Captain Carroll, C.B., B.N.,
chief of police^ speaking of the Refuges for the
Destitute in Bath, and of a kindred institution
which distributes bread and soup, says, — *' I
consider those institutions an attraction to
this city for vagrants." At Liverpool, Mr.
Henry Simpson said of a Night Asylnm, sup-
ported by voluntary oontributions, and estab-
lished tor several years in this town — ** This
charity was need by quite a difl'erent class of
persons finom those for whom it was designed.
A vast number of abandooed eharacters, Imown
thieves and {krostitutes^ liMmd nightly shelter
there.** *' The chief inducement to vagranej
in the town," says another Report, spesJaDg of
a certain part of the North Riding of York,
" is the relief given by mistaken hut benevolent
indiriduals, more particularly by the poorer
class. Instances have occurred where the
names of sucli bene\'olcnt persons have be«n
found in the possession of vagrants, obtained,
no doubt, from their fellow •ti-sveUers.'*
6. Vagrancy is largely duo to, and, indeed,
chietly maintained by the low bhlging-houses.
Sir
OF Yaohjists.
The first vagrant was one who had the tho-
rough look of a ** proiessionaL*' Ue was lit&
rally a mass of rags and filth. He was, indeeil,
exactly wliat in the Act of Henry \lU. is
denominated a "vaHant beggar." He stood
near upon six feet high, was not more than
twenty five, and liad altogether the frame and
constitution of a stalwart labouring wan. His
clothes, which were of fustian and corduroy,
tied close to his body with pieces of string,
were black and shiny with filUi, which looked
more like pitch than grease. He had no shixl,
as was plain from the fact that, where his
clothes were torn, his hare skiu was seen. The
ragged sleeves of his fustian jacket were tied
like the other parts of his dnsss, dose to his
v^rists, with stung. This was clearly to keep
the bleak air from his body. His ca^ was an
old, brimless " wide-awake," and when on hia
head gave the man a moat unnrepossessiBg
appc^arance. His story was as followB:^-
** I am a cwpet- weaver by trade. I served
my time to it. My father was a clerk in a
shoe-thread manufactory at ■ He got
35s. a^week, amd his house, coals, and can&s
found him. He lived veiycomfbrtAbly; indeed,
I was very hi^py. Befbn I left hoine,I knew
none of the cares of the world that I have
known sinee I left hirau My father and mother
are living stilL He is still as w^ off m when
I waa at home. I know this, because I have
heard from him twice, and seen him onoe.
He won't da snytkiag to ssaist me. I have
LOXJJON LA BOOB AND THE LONDON POOB.
379
tmsgrcssed so many times, that he won't take
ma in hand any more. I will tall you the
tmth, you may depend upon it ; yes, indeed,
I would, even if it were to izjjore myself. He
haa tried me many times, but now he has given
me up. At the age of twenty-one he told me
to go from home and seek a living for myself.
He said he had given me a home ever
sinoe I was a child, but now I had oome to
manhood I was able to provide for myself.
He gave me a good education, and I might
have been a better scholar at the present time,
had I not neglected my studies. He pnt me
to a day-school in the town when I was eight
yeazB old, and I continued there till I was
between twelve and thirteen. I leomt reading,
writing, and ciphering. I was taught the
catechism, the history of England, geography,
and drawing. My father was a very hai^sh
man when he was put out of his way. He was
a very violent temper when he was vexed, but
kind to us all when he was pleased. I have
five brotliers and six sisters. Ho never beat
me more than twice, to my remembrance.
The first time he thrashed me witli a cane,
and the lost with a horsewhip. I had stopped
out late at night. I was then just ri&ing six-
teen, and had left schooL I am sure those
thrashings did me no good, but made me
rather worse than before. I was a self-willed
lad, and determined, if I couldn't get my will
in one way, I would have it another. After
the last thrashing he told me he would give
me some trade, and after Uuit he would set me
off and get rid of me. Then I woe bound
apprentice as a carpet-weaver for three years.
Hy master was a very kind one. I nmned
away once. The cause of my going off was a
quarrel with one of the workmen that was put
over me. He was very harsh, and I scarce
coudd do anything to please him ; so I made
up my mind to leave. The first place I went
when I bolted was to Crewkeme, in Somerset-
shire. There I asked for employment at
carpet-weaving. I got some, and remained
there three days, when my father found out
where I was, and sent my brother and a
special constable after me. They took me
from the shop where I was at work, and
brought me back to , and would have
sent me to prison had I not promised to behave
myvelf, and serve my time out as I ought. I
went to work again ; and when the expiration
of my apprenticeship occurred, my father said
to me, * Sam, 3rou have a trade at your fingers'
enda: you are able to proride for you»elf.'
So then I left home. I was twenty -one years
of age. He gave me money, 3A lOn., to take
me into Wales, where I told him I should go.
I WM up for going about throu^ the country.
I made my father believe I was going into
Wales to get work ; but all I wanted was, to
go and see the place. After I had runne4
away once from my appremticeship, I found it
very hard to stop at home. I coi^dnt bring
myself to work somehow. While I sat at the
work, I thought I should Hke to be away in
the country : work seemed a burden to me. I
fbund it very difficult to stick to anything fc^
a long time ; so I made up my mindj when my
time was out, that I'd be off roving, and see a
little of life. I went by the packet from
Bristol to Newport After being there three
weeks, I had sjient all the money that I had
brought from home. I spent it in drinking—
most of it, and idling about. After that I was
obliged to sell my clot|kes, kc. The first thing
I sold waa my watch; I. got 2/. 55. for that
Then I was obliged to part with my suit of
clothes. For these I got H. 5s. With this I
started fipom Newp(»t to go farther up over the
hills. I liked this kind of life much better
than working, while the money lasted. I was
in the public-house three parts of my time oot
of four. I was a great slave to drink. I began
to like drink when I was between thirteen and
fourteen. At that time my uncle was keeping
a public-house, and I used to go there, back,
wards and forward, more or less every week.
Whenever I went to see my uncle he gave me
some beer. I very soon got to like it so much,
that, while an apprentice, I would spend all I
oould get in liquor. This was the cause of
my quarrels with my father, and when I went
away to Newport I did so to be my own master,
and drink as much as I pleased, without any-
body saying anything to me about it I got
up to Nant-y-^6, and there I sought for work
at the iron-foundry, but I eould not get it I
stopped at this place three weeks, still drink-
ing. The last day of the three weeks I sold
the boota off my feet to get food, for all my
money and clothes were now gone. I was
sorry then that I had ever left my father's
house; but alas! I found it too late. I didn't
write home to tell them how I was off; my
stubborn temper would not allow me. I then
started off barefoot begging my way from
Nant-y.gld to Monmouth. I told the people
that I was a carpet- weaver by trade, who could
not get any employment and that I was obliged
to travel the couxxtry against my own wish. I
didn't say a word about the drink — that would
never hacve done. I only took HyU on the
road, 19 miles long; and I'm sure I must have
asked assistance from more than a hundred
people. They said, some of them, that they
bad ' nout' for me; and others did give me a
bit of ^ bara caws,' or * bora minny ' ( thiU is, bread
and cheese, or bread and butter). Money is
very scarce among the Wehh, and what they
have they are very fond of. They don't mind
giving food ; if you wanted a bagful you might
have it there of the working people. I inquired
for a night's lodging at the union in Monmouth.
That was the first time I ever asked for shelter
in a workhouse in my life. I was admittwl
into the tramp-room. Oh, I felt then that I
would much rather be in prison than in such
a place, though I never knew ^at the inside
of a prison was— 4io, not then. I thought of
the kindnesa oi my ikther and mother. I
H
JJ80
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
would have been better, but I knew that, as I
had been carrying on, I never conld expect
shelter under my father's roof any more; I
knew he would not have taken me in had I
gone back, or I would have returned. Oh, I
was off from home, and I didn't much trouble
my head about it after a few minutes ; I plucked
up my spirits and soon forgot where I was. I
made no male friends in the union; I was
savage that I had so hard a bed to lie upon ; it
was nothing more than the bare boards, and a
rug to cover me. I knew very well it wasn't
my bed, but still I thought I ought to have a
better. I merely felt annoyed at its being so
bad a place, and didn't think much about the
rights of it In the morning I was turned out,
and after I had left I picked up with a young
woman, who had slept in the union over-night.
I said I was going on the road across country
to Birmingham, and I axed her to go with me.
I had never seen her before. She consented,
and we went along together, begging our way.
We passed as man and wife, and 1 was a carpet-
weaver out of employment Wo slept in
unions and lodging-houses by the way. In the
lodging-houses we lived together as man and
wife, and in the unions we were separated. I
never stole anything during all this time.
After I got to Birmingham I made my way to
Wolverhampton. My reason for going to
Wolverhampton was, that there was a good
many weavers there, and I thought I should
make a good bit of money by begging of them.
Ob, yes, I have found that I could always get
more money out of my own trade than any
other people. I did so well at Wolverhampton,
begging, that I stopped there three weeks. I
never troubled my head whether I was doing
right or wrong by asking my brother-weavers
for a portion of their hard earnings to keep
me in idleness. Many a time I have given
part of my wages to others myself. I can't
say that I would have given it to them if I had
known they wouldn't work like me. I wouldn't
have worked sometimes if I could have got it
I can't tell why, but somehow it was painful to
me to stick long at anything. To tell tlie
truth, I loved a roving, idle life. I would
much rather have been on the road than at my
home. I drank away all I got, and feared and
cared for nothing. When I got dnmk over-
night, it would have be«i impossible for me
to have gone to work in the morning, even if
I could have got it The drink seemed to
take all the work out of me. This oftentimes
led me to think of what my father used to tell
me, that *the bird that can sing and won't
sing ought to be made to sing.' During my
stay in Wolverhampton I lived at a tramper's
house, and there I fell in with two men well
acquainted with the town, and they asked me
to join them in breaking open a shop. No,
sir, no, I didn*t give a thought whether I was
doing right or wrong at it I didn't think my
father would ever know anything at all about
it, so I didif^ care. I liked my mother best,
much the best She had always been a kind,
good soul to me, often kept me f^m my father^s
blows, and helped me to things unknown to
my father. But when I was away on the road
I gave no heed to her. I didn't think of either
father or mother till after I was taken into
custody for that same job. Well, I agreed to
go with the other two ; they were old hands at
the business — regular housebreakers. We
went away between twelve and one at night
It was pitch dark. My two pals broke into
the back part of the house, and I stopped
outside to keep watch. After wafching for
about a quarter of an hour, a policeman came
up to me and asked what I was stopping there
for. I told him I was waiting for a man that
was in a public-house at the comer. This led
him to suspect me, it being so late at night
He went to the public-house to see whether
it was open, and found it shut, and then came
back to me. As he was returning he saw my
two comrades coming through the back win-
dow (that was the way they had got in). He
took us all three in custody ; some of the
passers-by assisted him in seizing ns. The
other two had six months' imprisonment each,
and I, being a stranger, had only fourteen
days. When I was sent to prison, I thought
of my mother. I would have written to her,
but couldnt get leave. Being the first time I
ever was nailed, I was very downhearted at it
I didn't say I'd give it up. While I was locked
up, I thought I'd go to work again, and be a
sober man, when I got out. These thoughts
used to come over me when I was * on the
stepper,' that is, on the wheel. But I concealed
all them thoughts in my breast I said nothing
to no one. My mother was the only one that
I ever thought upon. "When I got out of
prison, all these thoughts went awayf^m me,
and I went again at my old tricks. From
Wolverhampton I went to Manchester, and
from Manchester I came to London, begging
and stealing wherever I had a chance. This
is not my first year in London. I tell you the
truth, because I am known here; and if I tell
you a lie, you'll say * You spoke an untruth in
one tiling, and youll do so in another.' The
first time I was in London, I was put in prison
fourteen days for begging, and after I had a
month at Westminster Bridewell, for begging
and abusing the policeman. Sometimes Pd
think I'd raUier go anywhere, and do anything,
than continue as I was ; but then I had no
clothes, no friends, no house, no home, no
means of doing better. I had made myself
what I was. I had made my father and
mother turn their backs upon me, and what
could I do, but go on? I was as bad off then as
I am now, and I couldn't have got work then
if I would. I should have wp&ni all I got in
drink then, I know. I wrote home twice. I
told my mother I was hard up ; had neither a
shoe to my foot, a coat to my back, nor a roof
over my head. I had no answer to my first
letter, because it fell into the hands of my
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
881
brother, and lie tore it up, feaiing that my
mother might se«i it. To the second letter
that I sent home my mother sent me an
answer herself. She sent me a sovereign.
She told me that my father was the same as
when I first left home, and it was no use my
coming back. She sent me the money, bidding
me gat some clothes and seek for work. I
didn't do as she bade. I spent the money —
most part in drink. I didn't give any heed
whether it was wrong or right Soon got,
soon gone ; and I know they could have sent
me much more than that if they had pleased.
It was last June twelvemonth when I fii*st
came to London, and I stopped till the 10 th
of last March. I lost the young woman when
I was put in prison in Manchester. She
never came to see me in quod. She cared
nothing for me. She only kept company with
me to have some one on the road along with her ;
and I didn't care for her, not I. One half of
my time last winter I stopped at the ' Straw-
yfl^s,' that is, in the asylums for the
houseless poor here and at Glasshouse.
When I could get money I had a lodging.
After March I started off through Somerset-
shire. I went to my father's house then. I
didn't go in. I saw my father at the door, and
he wouldn't let me in. I was a little better
dressed than I am now. lie said ho hod
enough children at home without me, and
gave me 10<. to go. He could not have been
kind to me, or else he would not have turned
me from his roof My mother came out to
the garden in front of the house, afler my
father had gone to his work, and spoke to me.
She wished me to reform my character. I
coiUd not make any rash promises then. I
had but very little to say to her. I felt myself
at that same time, for the very first time in
my life, that I was doing wrong. I thought,
if I could hurt my mother so, it must be
wrong to go on as I did. I had never had
such thoughts before. My father's harsh
words always drove such thoughts out of my
head ; but when I saw my mother's tears, it
was more than I could stand. I was wanting
to get away as fast as I could from the house.
After that I stopped knocking about the
country, sleeping in unions, up to November.
Then I came to London again, and remained
up to this time. Since I have been in town
I have sought for work at the floor-cloth and
carpet manufactory in the Borough, and they
wouldn't even look at me in my present state.
I am heartily tired of my life now altogether,
and would like to get out of it if I could. I
hope at least I have given up my love of drink,
and I am sure, if I could once again lay my
hand on some work, I should be quite a
reformed character. Well, I am altogether
tired of carrying on like this. I haven't made
ed. a-day ever since I have been in London
this time. I go tramping it across the country
just to pass the time, and see a little of new
places. When the summer comes I want to
be off. I am sure have seen enough of this
country now, and I should like to have a look
at some foreign land. Old England has
nothing new in it now for me. I think a
beggar's life is the worst kind of life that a
man can lead. A beggar is no more thought
upon than a dog in Uie street, and there are
too many at the trade. I wasn't brought up to
a bad life. You can see that by little things
— by my handwriting ; and, indeed, I should
like to have a chance at something else. I
have had the feelings of a vagabond for full
ten years. I know, and now I am sure, I'm
getting a different man. I begin to have
thoughts and ideas I never had before. Once
I never feared nor cared for anything, and I
wouldn't have altered if I could; but now I'm
tired out, and if I haven't a chance of going
right, why I must go wrong."
The next was a short, thick -set man, with a
frequent grin on his countenance, which was
rather expressive of humour. He wore a very
dirty smock-frock, dirtier trousers, shirt, and
neckerchief, and broken shoes. He answered
readily, and as if he enjoyed his story.
" I never was at school, and was brought
up as a farm labourer at Devizes," he said,
*• where my parents were labourers. I worked
that way three or four years, and then ran
away. My master wouldn't give me money
enough — only 3«. Crf. a- week, — and my pa-
rents were very harsh ; so I ran away, rather
than be licked for ever. I'd heard people say,
* Go to Bath,' and I went there ; and I was
only about eleven then. I'm now twenty-
three. I tried to get work on the railway
there, and I did. I next got into prison for
stealmg three shovels. I was hard-up, having
lost my work, and so I stole thcni. I was ten
weeks in prison. I came out worse than I
went in, for I mixed with the old hands, and
they put me up to a few capers. When I got
out I thought I could Uve as well that way as
by hard work; so I took to the country. I
began to beg. At first I took * No ' for an
answer, when I asked for ' Charity to a poor
boy;' but I foimd that wouldn't do, so I
learned to stick to them. I was forced, or I
must have starved, and that wouldn't do at alL
I did middling ; plenty to eat, and sometimes
a drop to drink, but not often. I was forced
to be merry, because it's no good being down-
hearted. I begged for two years,— that is,
steal and beg together : I couldn't starve. I
did best in country >'illages in Somersetshire ;
there's always odds and ends to be picked up
there. I got into scrapes now and then.
Once, in Devonshire, me and another sl^pt at
a farm-house, and in the morning we went egg-
hunting. I must have stowed three dozen of
eggs about me, when a dog barked, and we
were alarmed and ran away, and in getting
over a gate I fell, and there I lay among Uie
smashed eggs. I can't help laughing at it
still : but- J. got away. I was too sharp for
them. I have been twenty or thirty times in
382
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON J^OOn.
prison. I have been in for stealing bread,
and a side of bacon, and cheese, and shovels,
and other things; generally provisions. I
generally learn something new in prison. I
shaU do no good while I stop in England.
It's not possible a man like me can get woric,
so I'm forced to go on this way. Sometimes
I haven't a bit to eat all day. At night I may
pick up something. An uncle of mino once
told me he would Hkc to see me transported,
or come to the gallows. I told him I had no
fear about the gallows ; I should never come to
tbat end : but if I were transported I should
be better ofif than I am now. I can't stan-e,
and I won't ; and I can't 'list, I'm too short.
I came to London the other day, but could do
no good. Xlie London hands are quite a
different set to us. We seldom do business to-
petliiT. ]My way's simple. If I see a thing,
and I'm hungry, I take it if I con, in London
or anywhere. I once had a turn with two
Londoners, and we got two coots and two
pair of trousers ; but the police got them back
again. I was only locked up one night for it
The country's the best place to get away with
anything, because there's not so many poHce-
nien. There's lots hvc as I hve, because
there's no work. I can do a country police-
man, generally. I've had sprees nt the coun-
try lodging-houses — larking, and drinking,
and conning on, and playhig cards and domi-
noes all night for a farthing a game ; some-
times fighting about it. I can play at domi-
noes, but I don't know tlie cords. They try
to cheat one another. Honour among thieves !
wliy there's no such thing ; they take from
one another. Sometimes we dunce all night —
Christmas time, and such times. Young wo-
men dance with us, and sometimes old women.
We're all meiT}-; some's lying on the floor
drunk ; some's jumping about, smoking ;
some's dancing ; and so we enjoy ourselves.
Thai's the best part of the life. Wo are sel-
dom slopped in our merry-makings in the
country. It's no good tlie policemen coining
among us; give them beer, and you may
knock tlie house do>vn. We have good meat
sometimes; sometimes very rough. Some
are very pariicular about their cookery, as nice
OS anybody is. They must have tlieir pickles,
and their peppers, and their fish-sauces (fve
liad them myself), to their dishes. Chops, in
the country, has tJie call ; or ham and eggs —
tliat's relished. Some's very poi'ticular about
Uieii- drink, t<^o ; won't touch bad beer ; same
way with the gin. It's chiefly gin (I'm talking
about the countrj*), very Uttlo rum; no
brandy: but sometimes, after a good day's
work, a drop of T^-ine. We lielp one another
when we are sick, where we're knowed.
Some's very good that way. Some lodging-
house keepers get rid of anybody that's sick,
by taking them to the reUeving-officer at
once."
A really fine-looking lad of eighteen gave me
the ftdlouing statement. He wore a sort of
frock-coat, veiy thin, battoned ahoat him, old
cloth trousers, and bad shoes. His shirt was
tolerably good and dean, and altogether Iks had
a tidy look and an air of quickntsu, botnoi of
cunning : —
" My father," he said, " was a bnakkyar in
Shoreditch y^&rish, and my mother took in
washing. They did prct^ well; but they're
dead and buried two years and a half a^o. I
used to work in brick-fields at Ball*s-poQd,Hv-
ing with my parents, and taking home eveiy
farthing I earned. I earned I8t. a-week, work-
ing from five in the morning until sunset. Tbcj
had only me. I can read and write middling ;
when my parents died, I had to look out for
myselC I was off work, attending to my Cdher
and mother when they wore sick. They died
within about three weeks of each other, aad I
lost my work, and I had to part with my dothes
before that I tried to work in briek-fielda, and
couldn't get it, and woric grew slack. When
my parents died I was thirteen ; and I aome-
Umes got to sleep in the unions ; but that was
stopped, and then I took to the lodging-honaes,
and there I met with lads who were allying
themselves at push-halfpenny and cards ; and
they wore thieves, and they tempted me to join
them, and I did for once — but only once. I
then went begging about the streets and tbier-
ing, as I knew the others do. I used to pick
pockets. I worked for myself^ because I thought
that would be best. I had no fence at all— no
pals at first, nor anything. I worked by my-
self for a time. I sold the handkerchie&Igotto
Jews in the streets, chiefly in lieldJana, for
1«. 0(/., but I have got as much as St. U. for
your real fancy ones. One of these bayers
wanted to clieat me out of 6^., so I would have
no more dealings with him. The others paid
me. The ' Kingsmen ' Ihey call the best hind-
kerchiefs — those that have the pretty-looldng
flowers on them. Some are only worth Ad, or
5</., some's not worth taking. Those I gave
away to strangers, boys like myself or wore
them myself, round my neck. I on^ threw
one away, but it was all rags, though he looked
quite like a gentleman that had it. Lord-major^
day and such times is the best for us. Last
Lord-mayor's day I got four handkerdaefe,
and I made 1I«. There was a 6 J. tied op in
the corner of one handkerchief; another was
pinned to the pocket, but I got it out, and
after that another chap had him, and cot his
pocket clean away, but there was nothing in it.
I generally picked my men — regular swdls, or
good-humoured looking men. I've often fid-
lowed them a mile. I once got a parse with
3«. C(/. in it from a lady when the Coal Ex-
change was opened. I made 8<. 0<j. that day—
the purse and handkerchiefs. Thaf s the only
lady I ever robbed. I was in the crowd iriien
Manning and his wife were hanged. I wanted
to see if they died game, as I heard them talk
so much about them at our house. I was there
all night I did four good handkerchief asd
a rotten one not worth picking up. I sow then
LONDON LABOUM AND THE LONDON POOR.
at)-i
lioiig. I WK8 right under the drop. I was a bit
startled when they brought him up imd put the
rope round his neck and the coip on, and then
they brought her out All said he was hung
innocently ; it was she that should have been
buiiff by hersolfl They both dropped together,
and 1 felt fkintified, but I soon felt all right
again. The police drove us away as soon as it
was over, so that I couldn't do any more busi-
ness ; besides, I was knocked down in the crowd
and jumped upon, and I won't go to see an-
other hung in a hurry. He didn't deserve it,
hut she did, every inch of her. I can't say I
'ithooght, while I was seeing the execution, that
the life I was leading would ever bring me to
the gallows. After I'd worked by myself a bit, I
got to live in a house where lads like me, big
and little, wore accommodated. We paid xid, a-
night It was always full ; there was twenty
or twenty-one of us. We eiyoyed ourselves
middliDg. I was happy enough: wo drank
sometixpes, chiefly beer, and sometimes a drop
of gin. One would say, *■ I've done so much,'
andfuiother, 'I've done so much;' and stand
a drop. The best I ever heard done was 2/. for
two coats from a tailor's, near Bow-church,
Cheapside. That was by one of my pals. We
used to share our money with those who did
nothing for a day, and they shared with us
when we rested. There never was any blab-
bing. We wouldn't do one another out of a
fitrthing. Of a nigiit some one would now and
then r^ h}'mns, out of books they sold about
the streets — I'm sure they were hymns ; or else
we'd read stories about Jock Sheppard and Dick
Tarpin, and all through that seL They were
laiige thick books, borrowed from the library.
They told how they used to break open the
houses, and get out of Newgate, and how Dick
got away to York. We used to think Jack and
them very fine fellows. I wished I could be
like Jack (I did then), about the blankets in
his escape, and that old house in West-street
— it is a ruin still. We played cards and do-
minoes sometimes at our house, and at push-
ing a halfpenny over tlie table along five lines.
We struck the hal^enny from the edge of the
table, and according to what line it settled on
was the gome — ^likc as they play at the Glass-
house— that's the * model lodging-house' they
calls it. Cribbage was always pla^'ed at cards.
I ean only play cribbage. We hove played for a
shilling a gome, but oAcner a penny. It was al-
ways fair play. That was the way we passed the
time when we were not out We used to keep
quiet, or the police would have been down upon
us. They know of the place. They took one boy
there. I wondered what they wanted. They
eatehed him at the very door. We Hved pretty
well ; anything wo liked to get, when we'd
money : we cooked it ourselves. The master of
the house was always on the look-out to keep out
those who had no business there. No girls
were admitted. The master of the house had
nothing to do with what we got I don't know
of any other such house in London ; I don't
think there are any. The master would some-
times drink with us--a larking like. He used
us pretty kindly at times. I have been three
times in prison, three months each time ; the
Compter, Brixton, and Maidstone. I went
down to Maidstone fiair, and was caught by a
London policeman down there. He was dressed
as a bricklayer. Prison always made me worse,
and as I had nothing given me when I came
out, I had to look out again. I generally got
hold ol somethiAg before I had been an hour
out of prison. I'm now heartily sick of this
lifie. I wish I'd been transpoiisd with some
others from Maidstone, where I was tried."
A cotton-spinner (who had subsequently
been a soldier), whose appearance was utterly
abject, ^-as the next person questioned. He
was tall, and had been florid-looking (judging
by his present complexion). His coat — very
old and worn, and once black — ^would not but-
ton, and would have hardly held together if
buttoned. He was out at elbows, and some
parts of the collar were pinned together. His
waistooat was of a match with his coat, and his
trousers were rags. He had some shirt, as was
evident by his waistcoat, held together by one
button. A very dirty handkerchief was tied
carelessly round his neck. He was tall and
erect, and told his adventures with heartiness.
"I am thirty-eight," ho said, ''and have
been a cotton- spinner, working at Chorlton-
upon-Medlock. I can neither read nor write.
When I was a young man, twenty years ago,
I could earn 2/. 10*., clear money, every week,
after paying two piecers and a scavenger.
Each piecer had Is, Qd, a-week — ^they are
girls ; the scavenger — a boy to clean the wheels
of the cotton-spinning machine — had 2s. Qd.
I was master of tliem wheels in the factorj-.
This state of things continued until about the
year 1837. I liv^ well and eiyoyed myself,
being a hearty man, noways a drunkard, work-
ing every day frx)m half-past five in the room-
ing till half-past seven at night — long hours,
that time, master. I didn't core about money
as long as I was decent and respectable. I
had a turn for sporting at the wakes down
there. In 1837, the * self- actors ' (machines
with steam power) had come into common
use. One girl can mind three pairs — that used
to be Uiree men's work — getting 15«. for the
work which gave three men 11. 10». Out of
one factory 400 hands were flung in one week,
men and women together. We had a meeting
of the union, but nothing could be done, and
we were told to go and mind the three pairs,
as the girls did, for lbs. a-week. We wouldn't
do that Some went for soldiers, some to sea,
some to Stopport (Stockport), to get work in
factories where the * self-actors ' wem't agoit.
The masters there wouldn't liave them— at
least some of them. Manchester was full of
them ; but one gentleman in Ilulme still
won't have them, for he sa}'8 he won't turn
the men out of bread. J 'listed for a soldier
in the 48th. I liked a soldier's life very well
884
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
UDtil I got flogged — lOO lashes for selliDg my
kit (for a spree), uid l&O for striking a cor-
poral, who colled me on English robber. He
was an Irishman. I was confined five days in
the hospital after each punishment. It was
terrible. It was like a bimch of razors catting
at your back. Your flesh was dragged off by
the cats. Flogging was then very common in
the regiment I was flogged in 1840. To
tliis day I feel a pain in the chest from the
triangles. I was discharged from the army
about two years ago, when the reduction took
place. I was only flogged the times Tve told
you. I had no pension and no friends. I was
discharged in Dublin. I turned to, and looked
for work. I couldn't get any, and made my
way for Manchester. I stole myself aboard of
a steamer, and hid myself till she got out to
sea, on her way from Dublin to Liyerpool.
When the captain found me there, he gave
me a kick and some bread, and told mo to
work, so I worked for my passage twenty-four
hours. Ho put me ashore at Liverpool. I
slept in the union that night — nothing to eat
and nothing to cover me — no fire; it was
winter. I walked to Manchester, but could
get nothing to do there, though I was twelve
months knocking about. It wants a friend
and a character to get work. I slept in anions
in Manchester, and had oatmeal porridge for
breakfast, work at grinding logwood in the
mill, from bix to twelve, and then turn out.
That was the way I lived chiefly ; but I got a
job sometimes in driving cattle, and ^d, for it,
— or 2</. for canying baskets in the vegetable
markets; and went to Shoedale Union at
night. I would get a pint of coffee and half-
apound of bread, and half-a-poond of bread
in the morning, and no work. I took to tra-
velling up to London, half-hungered on the
rood — that was last winter — eating tomipa
out of this field, and carrots out of that, and
sleeping under hedges and haystacks. I slept
under one haystack, and pulled out the hay to
cover me, and the snow lay on it a foot deep
in the morning. I slept for all that, but
wasn't I froze when I woke ? An old farmer
came up with his cart and pitchfork to load
hay. He said : * Poor fellow ! have you been
here all night ?' I answered, * Yes.' He gave
me some coffee and bread, and one shilling.
That was the only good friend I met with on
the road. I got fourteen days of it for asking
a gentleman for a penny ; that was in Stafford.
I got to London after that, sleeping in unions
sometimes, and begging a bite here and
there. Sometimes I had to walk all night
I was once forty-eight hours without a bite,
until I got hold at last of a Swede turnip, and
so at last I got to London. Here I've tried
up and down everywhere for work as a labour-
ing man, or in a foundry. I tried London
Docks, and Blackwall, and every place ; but
no job. At one foundry, the boiler-makers
made a collection of 4s. for me. I've walked
the streets for three nights together. Here, in
this fine London, 1 was refused a night's
lodging in Shoreditch and in Gray's-inn-lane.
A policeman, the fourth uight, at twelve
o'clock, procured me a lodging, and gave me
Zd, I couldn't drag on any longer. I was
taken to a doctor's in the city. I fell in the
street from hunger and tiredness. The doctor
ordered me brandy and water, 2j. (k^., and a
quartern loaf, and some coffee, sugar, and
butter. He said, what I ailed was hunger.
I made that run out as long as I could, but I
was then as bad off as ever. It's hard to
hunger for nights togeth^. I wa.s once iu
* Steel * (Goldbath.fields) for begging. I was
in Tothill-fields for going into a chandJei^s
shop, asking for a quartern loaf and half a
pound of cheese, and walking out with it I
got A month for that I have been in Brixton
for taking a loaf out of a baker's basket, all
through hanger. Better a prison than to
starve. I was well treated because I behaved
well in prison. I have slept in coaches when
I had A chance. One night on a dunghill,
covering the stable straw about me to keep
myself waim. This place is a reliel I shave
the poor people and cut their hair, on a
Sunday. I was handy at that when I was a
soldier. I have shaved in public-houses for
hal^nnies. Some landlords kicks me out
Now, in the days, I may pick up a penny or
two that wiqr, and get here of a night I met
two Manchester men in Hyde Park on Satur-
day, skating. They asked me what I was.
I said, * A beggiu:.' They gave me 2«. (Sd^ and
I spent part of it for warm coffee and other
things. They knew all about Manchester,
and knew I was a Manchester man l>v my
talk."
The statement I then took was that of a
female vagrant— a young girl with eyes and
hair of remarkable blaclmess. Her complex-
ion was of the deepest brunette, her cheeks
were ftdl of colotur, and her lips very thick.
This was accounted for. She told me that
her father was a mulatto from Pliiladelphia.
She was short, and dressed in a torn old cot-
ton gown, the pattern of which was hardly
discernible from wear. A kind of hidf-shawl,
patched and mended in several places, and of
very thin woollen texture, was pinned around
her neck ; her arms, which, with her hands,
were ftill and laige, were bare. She wore very
old broken boots and ragged stockings. Her
demeanour was modest
*' I am now eighteen,*' she stated. ** My
father was a coloured man. He came over
here as a sailor, I have heard, but I never
saw him ; for my mother, who was a white
woman, was not married to him, but met him
at Oxford ; and she married afterwards a box-
maker, a white man, and has two other chil-
dren. They are living, I believe, but I dout
know where they are. I have beard my mo-
ther say that my father — that's my own
father — had become a missionary, and bad
been sent out to America from England as a
VAGRANT FROM THE REFUGE IN PLAYHOUSE
YARD, CRIPPLEGATE.
{From a Fhotcgngph.']
\
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
385
missioiiary, bj Mr. . I beUeve that
was fifteen years Ago. I don't know who Mr.
— was, but he was a gentleman, Pve
heard my mother say. She told me, too, that
my faCher was a good scholar, and that he
could speak seven different languages, and
was a very religious man. He was sent out
to Boston, but I never heard whether he was
to stay or not, and I don't know what he was
to missionary about He behaved very well
to my mother, I have heard her say, until she
took up with tlie other man (the box-maker)^
and then he left her, and gave her up, and
came to London. It was at Oxford that they
all three were then ; and when my father got
away, or came away to London, my mother
followed him (she told me so, but she didn't
like to talk about it), as she was then in the
family way. She didn't find him; but my
father heard of her, and left some money
with Mr. for her, and she got into
Poland-street workhouse through Mr. —
Tve heard. While there, she received If. 6dL
a-week, but my father never came to see her
or me. At one time, my father used to live
by teaching languages. He had been in
Spain, and France, and Morocco. Tve heard,
at any rate, that he could speak the Moors'
language, bat I know nothing more. All this
is what I've heard from my mother and my
grandmother — that's my mother's mother.
My grandfather and grandmother are dead.
He was a sawrer. I have a great grandmother
living in Ox&rd, now ninety-two, supported
by her parish. I lived with my granamotlier
at Oxford, who took me out of pity, as my
mother never cared about me, inien I was
four months old. I remained with her until
I was ten, and then my mother came from
Beading, where she was living, and took me
away with her. I lived with her and my step-
father, but tliey wore badly off. He couldn't
get mncli to do at his ti*ade as a box-maker,
and he drank a great dcaL I was witli them
about nine months, when 1 ran away. He
beat me so ; ho never liked me. I couldnt
bear it. I went to Pangboume, but there I
was stopped by a man my stepfather had
sent — at least I suppose so — and I was forced
to walk back to ReiDding — ^ten miles, perhaps.
My father appUod to the overseer for support
for me, and the overseer was rather harsh,
and my father struck him, and for that he was
sent to prison for three months. My mother
and her children then got into the workhouse,
but not until after my stepfather had been
some time in prison. Before that she had an
allowance, which was stopped ; I don't know
how much. I was in the .workhouse twenty-
one days. I wasn't badly treated. My mother
swtarcd my parish, and I was removed to St.
James's, Poland-street, London. I was there
three weeks, and tlicn I was sent to New
Brentford — ^it was called the Juvenile Esta-
blishment— and I went to school. There was
about 150 boys and girls ; the boys were sent
to Norwood when they were fifteen. Some of
the girls were eighteen, kept there until they
could get a place. I don't know whether they
aU belonged to St James's, or to different
paxishes, or how. I stayed there about two
years. I was vexy well treated, sufiicient to
eat ; but we worked hard at scrubbing, clean-
ing, and making shirts. We made all the
boys' clothes as well, jackets and trousers, and ■
alL I was then apprenticed a maid-of-all-
work, in Duke-street, Grosvcnor-square, for
three years. I was there two years and a
half, when my master failed in business, and
had to purt with me. They had no servant but
me. Mv mistress was sometimes kind, pretty
well. I had to work very hard. She sometimes
beat me if I stopped long on my errands. My
master beat me once for bringing things i!^Tong
from a grocer's. I made a mistake. Once my
mistress knocked me down-staii^ for being
long on an eirand to Pimlico, and I'm sure I
couldnt help it, and my eye was cut. It was
three weeks befbre I could see welL [There
is a slight mark under the girl's eye stilL]
They beat me with their fists. After I left my
master, I tried hard to get a place ; I'm sure I
did, but I really couldn't; so to live, I got
watercresses to sell up and down Oxford-
street I stayed at lodging-houses. I tried
that two or three monliis, but couldn't live.
My mother had been ' through the countiy,'
and I knew other people that hod, through
meeting them at the lodging-houses. I first
went to Croydon, begging my way. I slept in
the workhouse. After that I went to Brighton,
begging my way, but couldn't get much, not
enough to pay my lodgings. I was constantly
insulted, both in the lodgmig-houses and in the
streets. I sung in the streets at Brighton, and
got enough to pay my lodgings, and a little
for food. I was there a week, and then I went
to the Mendicity, and they gave me a piece of
bread (morning and night) and a night's lodg-
ing. I then went to Lewes and other places,
begging, and got into prison at Tunbridge
Wells for fourteen days, for begging. I only
used to say I was a poor girl out of place, could
they relieve me ? I told no lies. I didn't pick
my ofJium one day, it was such hard stuff;
three and a half pounds of it to do from nine to
h^-past three : so I was put into solitary for
three days and three nights, ha\'ing half apound
of bread and a pint of cold water morning and
night ; nothing else, and no bed to sleep on.
I'm sure I tell you the truth. Some had irons
on their hands if they were obstropolous. Thnt's
about two months ago. I'm sorry to say that
during this time I couldn't be virtuous. I
know veiy well what it means, for I can read
and write, but no girl can be so circumstanced
as I was. I seldom got monpy for being
wicked; I hated being wicked, but I was
tricked and cheated. I am truly sorry for
it, but what could a poor girl do ? I begged
my way fkrom London to Hastings, and got
here on Saturd^gr last, and having no money,
386
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
came here. I heard of this asylum from a
«^rl in Whitcchapel, who had been here. I
met her in a lodging-house, where I called
to rest in the daytime. They let us rest some-
times in lodging-houses in the daytime. I
never was in any prison but Tunbridge Wells,
and in Gravesend lock-up for being out after
twelve at night, when I had no money to get a
lodging. I was there one Saturday night, and
got out on Sunday morning, but had nothing
jnven me to eat— I was in by myself. It's a
bad place — just straw to sleep on, and very
cold. I told you I could read and write. I
learnt tliat partly at Oxford, and finished my
learning at the JuTenile Establishment at
Brentford. There I was taught, reading, writ-
ing, simis, marking, sewing, and scrubbing.
Once I could say sll the multiplication table,
but I've forgot most of it I know how to make
lace, too, because I was taught by a cousin in
Oxford, another grandchild of my grandmo-
ther's. I can make it with knitting-needles.
I could make cushion-loce with pins, but I'm
afraid I've forgot how now. I should like, if I
could to get into service again, here or abroad.
I have heard of Australia, where I have a cou-
sin. I am sure I could and would conduct
myself well in service, I have suffered so much
out of it I am sure of it. I never stole any-
thing in my life, and have told all I have done
wrong.**
Statement of ▲ Retubmeo Conyict.
I SHALL now give the statement of a man
who was selected at random from amongst a
number such as himself, congregated in one
of the most respectable lodging-houses. He
proved, on examination, to be a returned con-
vict, and one who had gone through the
severest bodily and mentfd agony. He had
lived in the bush, and been tried for his life.
He was an elderly-looking man, whose hair
was just turning grey, and in whose appear-
ance there was nothing remarkable, except
that Ids cheek-bones were unusually high,
and that his face presented that collected and
composed expression which is common to
men exposed to habitual watchAilness frt)m
constant danger. He gave me the following
statement. His dress was bad, but differed in
nothing from that of a long- distressed me-
chanic. He said :—
" I am now 43 (he looked much older), and
hod respectable parents, and a respectable
education. I am a native of London. When
I was young I was fond of a roving Ufe, but
cared nothing about drink. I liked to see
* life,' as it was called, and was fond of the
company of women. Money was no object
in those days ; it was like picking up dirt in
the streets. I ran away from home. My
parents were very kind to me ; indeed, I think
I was used too well, I was petted so, when I
was between 12 and 13. I got acquainted
with some boys at Bartlemy-fair a little before
that, and saw them spending lots of moQ^
and throwing at cock-shies, and such-like;
and one of Uiem said, * Why don't jou oome
out like us ?' So afterwards I ran away and
joined them. I was not kept shorter of money
than other boys like me, but I couldnt settle,
I couldn't fix my mind to any regular business
but a waterman's, and my friends wouldn't
hear of that There was nine boys of us
among the lot that I joined, but we didn't all
work together. All of 'em came to be sent to
Van Dieman's Land as transports except one,
and he was sent to Sydney. While we were
in London it was a merry life, with change of
scene, fbr we travelled about We were suc-
cessful in nearly all our plans for several
months. I worked in Fleet Street and could
make 3/. a- week at handkerchiefs alone, some-
times fiedling across a pocket-book. The best
handkerchiefs then brought 4j. in Field-lane,
Our chief enjoyments were at the * Free and
Easy,' where all the thieves and young women
went, and sang and danced. I had a young
woman for a partner then ; she went out to
Van Dieman's Land. She went on the lift in
London (shopping and stealing from the
counter). She was clever at it I carried on
in this way for about 15 months, when I was
grabbed for an attempt on a gentleman's
pocket by St Paul's Cathedral, on a grand
charity procession day. I had two months
in the Old Horse (Bridewell). I never thought
of my parents at this time — ^I wouldn't I
was two years and a half at this same trade.
One week was very like another, — successes
and esci^s, and free-and-easies, and games
of all sorts, made up the life. At the end of
the two years and a half I got into the way of
forged Bank-of-England notes. A man I
knew in the course of business, said, * I would
cut that game of * smatter-hauling,* (stealing
handkenmiefs), and do a little soft,' (pass bad
notes). So I did, and was very successful at
first I had a mate. He afterwards went oat
to Sydney, too, for 14 years. I went stylishly
dressed as a gentleman, with a watch in my
pockety to pass my notes. I passed a good
many m drapers' shops, also at tailors' shops.
I never tried jewellers, they're reckoned too
good judges. The notes were all finnies,
(5/. notes), and a good imitation. I made
more money at this game, but lived as before,
and had my partner still. I was fond of her;
she was a nico girl, and I never found that
she wronged me in any way. I thought at
four months' end of retiring into Uie country
with gambling-tables, as the risk was be-
coming considerable. They hung them for it
in them days, but that never daunted me
the least in life. I saw Cashman hung for
that gimsmith's shop on Snow-hill, and I saw
Fauntleroy hung, and a good many others,
but it gave me no uneasiness and no fear.
The gallowR had no terror for people in my
way of life. I started into the oonntiy with
another man and his wife — ^his lawlhl wife-*
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
887
for I had a few words with my own young
woman, or I shouldn't have left her behind
me, or, indeed, have started at all. We carried
gambling on in different parts of the country
for six months. We made most at the E. 0.
tables, — ^not those played with a ball, they
weren't in vogue then, but throwing dice for
prizes marked on a table. The highest prize
was ten guineas, but the dice were so made
that no prize could be thrown ; the numbers
were not regular as in good dice, and they
were loaded as well. If anybody asked to see
them, we had good dice ready to show. AU
sorts played with us. London men and all
were taken in. We made most at the races.
My mate and his wife told me that at the last
Newmarket meeting we attended, 65/. was
made, but they rowed in the same boat. I
know they got a deal more. The 60/. was
shared in ikree equal portions, but I had to
maintain the horse and cart out of my own
share. We used to go out into the roads
(highway robbery) between races, and if we
met an * old bloke' (man) we * propped him'
(Imocked him down), and robbed him. We
did good stakes that way, and were never
found out. We lived as well as any gentle-
man in the land. Our E. 0. table was in a
tilted cart. I stayed with this man and his
wife two months. She was good-looking, so
as to attract people. I thought they didn't
use me altogether right, so at Braintree I
gave another man in the same way of business
28/. for his kit — horse, harness, tilted-cart,
and table. I gave him two good 5/. notes
and three bad ones, for I worked that way
Btin, not throwing much of a chance away.
I came to London for a hawker's stock, braces
and such -like, to sell on the road, just to take
the down oflf (remove suspicion). In the
meantime, the man that I bought the horse,
&t,y of, had been nailed passing a bad note,
and he stated who he got it from, and I was
traced. He was in a terrible rage to find
himself done, particularly as he used to do
the same to other people himself. He got
acquitted for that there note after he had me
* pinched '(arrested). I got' fullied'(fyilly com-
mitted). Iwas tried at the * Start' ( OldBailey),
and pleaded guilty to the minor offence, (that
of utterance, not knowing the note to be
forged), or I should have been hanged for it
then. It was a favourable sessions when I
was tried. Thirty-six were cast for death,
and only one was * topped' (hanged), the very
one that expected to be ^turned up ' (acquitted)
for highway robbery. I was sentenced to
14 years' transportation. I was ten weeks in
the Bellerophon hulk at Sheemess, and was
then taken to Hobart Town, Van Dieman's
Land, in the Sir Godfrey Webster. At Ho-
bart Town sixty of us were picked out to go
to Launceston. There (at Launceston) we
lay for four days in an old church, guarded by
constables ; and then the settlers came there
frtmi all parts, and picked their men out. I
got a vexy bad master. He put me to harvest
work that I had never even seen done before,
and I had the care of pigs as wild as wild
boars. After that I was sent to Launceston
with two letters from my master to the super-
intendent, and the other servants thought I
had luck to get away from Red Barks to
Launceston, which was 16 miles off. I then
workedinaGovemmentpotato-field; in the Go-
vernment charcoal-works for about 1 1 months ;
and then was in the Marine department, going
by water from Launceston to George Town,
taking Government officers down in gigs, pro-
visions in boats, and such-like. There was a
crew of six (convicts) in the gigs, and four in
the watering-boats. All the time I consider I
was very hardly treated. I hadn't clothes half
the time, being allowed only two slop-suits in
a year, and no bed to lie on when we had to
stay out all night with the boats by the river
Tamor. With 12 years' service at this my
time was up, but I had incurred sevend
punishments before it was up. The first was
25 lashes, because a bag of flour had been
burst, and I picked up a capfull. The flogging
is dreadfully severe, a soldier's is nothing to
it. I once had 50 lashes, for taking a hat
in a joke when I was tipsy; and a soldier
had 300 the same morning. I was flogged as
a convict, and he as a soldier ; and when wo
were both at the same hospital after the
flogging, and saw each oiler's backs, the other
convicts said to me, * D — it, you've got it this
time ,*' and the soldier said, when he saw my
back, 'You've got it twice as bad I have.'
*No,' said the doctor, *ten times as bad —
he's been flogged; but you, in comparison,
have only had a child's whipping.' The cats
the convicts were then flogged with were
each six feet long, made out of the log-
Hue of a ship of 500 tons burden ; nine
over- end knots were in each tail, and nine
tails whipped at each end with wax-end. With
this we had half-minute lashes ; a quick lash-
ing would have been certain death. One
convict who had 75 lashes was taken from the
triangles to the watch-house in Launceston,
and was asked if he would have some tea, — he
was found to be dead. The military surgeon
kept on sa}ing in this case, * Go on, do your
duty.' I was mustered there, as was every
hand belonging to the Government, and saw
it, and heaurd the doctor. When I was first
flogged, there was inquiry among my fellow-con.
ricts, as to * How did D-— (meaning me) stand
it — did he sing ? ' The answer was, * He was
a pebble;* that is, I never once said, * Oh !' or
gave out any expression of the pain I suffered.
I took my flogging like a stone. If I had
sung, some of the convicts would have given
me some lush with a locust in it (laudanum
hocussing), and when I was asleep would have
given me a crack on the head that would have
laid me straight. That first flogging made me
ripe. I said to myself, * I can take it like a
bullock.' I could have taken the flogger's life
3S(»
LOXDOy LABOUR ASD THE LONDOS POOR.
at tht time, I felt sach revenge. Hogging
vXwMjn gme that lieeling; I know it does,
from what I've heard othern mj who had heen
flogged like mjselfl In all I had 875 lashes
at my different ponishmentfl. I nsed to hoast
of it at last I would saj, ' I don't care, I can
take it till they see my backbone.' After a
flogging, I'te rubbed my back against a wall,
just to show my bravery like, and squeezed
the congealed blood out of it Once I would
not let them dress my back after a flogging,
and I had 29 additional for that At last I
bolted to Hobart Town, 120 miles off. There
I was taken before Mr. H , the magistrate,
himself a convict formerly, I )»elieve from the
I Irish Bebellion ; but he was a good man to a
prisoner. He ordered me 00, and sent me
back to Launreston. At I^nnceston I was
* follied' by a bench of magistrates, and had
100. Seven years before my time was up I
took to the bush. I could stand it no longer,
of course not In the bush I met men with
whom, if I had been seen associating, I should
have been hanged on any slight charge, such
as Brittan was and his pals.**
I am not at liberty to continue this raan*s
statement at present : it would be a breach of
the trust reposed in me. Suffice it, he was
in after days tried fur his life. Altogether it
was a most extraordinary statement; and,
from confirmations I received, was altogether
truthful. He declared that he was so sick of
the life he was now leading, that he would, as
a probation, work on any kind of land any-
where for nothing, just to get out of it He
pronounced the hnlging-houses the grand
encouragements and concealments of crime,
though he might be speaking against himself,
he said, as he had always hidden safely there
during the hottest search. A policeman once
walked through the ward in search of him,
and he was in bed. He knew the policeman
well, and was as well known to the officer,
but he was not recognise<1. He attributed his
escape to the thick, bad atmosphere of tlie
place giring his features a different look, and
to his having shaved off his whiskers, and
pulled his nightcap over his head. The
officer, too, seemed half-sick, he said.
It ought also to be added, that this man
stated that the severity of the Government in
this penal colony was so extreme, that men
thought httle of giving others a knock on the
head with an axe, to get hanged out of the
way. Under the discipline of Captain Mac-
conochie, however, who introduced better
order with a kindlier system, there wasn't a
man but what svould have laid down his life
for him.
Lives of the Bot Iksates of the Casual
Wabds of the Lordon Workhouses.
An intelligent-looking boy, of sixteen yean of
age, whose dress was a series of ragged coats,
three in number-* as if one was to obviate the
deficiency of another, since one would not
button, and another was almost sleeveless —
gave me the following statement He had
long and rather fidr hair, and spoke quietly.
Hesmid.*^
" I'm a native of Wisbench. in Cambridge-
shire, and am sixteen. My father was a shoe-
maker, and my mother died when I was five
yean old, and my father married again. I was
sent to school, and can read and write well
My fiither and step-mother were kind enough
to me. I was apprenticed to a tailor three
yean ago, but I wasn't long with him; I
ninncd awa^. I think it was three months I
was with hmi when I fin^t nmned aw^y. It
was in August — I got as far as Boston in
Lincolnshire, and was away a fortnight I
hod 4i. fM, of my own money when I started,
/uid that lasted two or three da^-s. I stopped
in lodging-houses until my money was gooe^
and then I slept anywhere — under the hedges,
or anywhere. I didn't bee so much of life then,
but I've seen plenty of it since. I had to beg
my way back from Boston, but was vefy
awkwanl at first. I lived on turnips mainly.
My reason for running off was because my
master ill-used me so ; he beat me, and kept
me finom my meals, and mode roe sit up won-
iog late at nights for a pimishment : but it
was more to his good than to punish me. I
hated to be confined to a tailor's shopboard,
but I would rather do that sort of work now
then hunger about like this. But you see, sir,.
God punishes yon when you dont think of it
When I went back my father was glad to see
me, and he wouldn't have me go back again
to my master, and my indentures were eanceUed.
I stayed at home seven months, doing odd
jobs, in driving sheep, or any countiy work,
but I always wanted to be off to sea. I hked
the thoughts of gcing to sea fkr better than
tailoring. I determined to go to sea if I could.
When a dog's determined to have a bone, it's
not easy to hinder him. I didnt read storiei
about the sea then, not even * Itobinson
Crusoe,'-* indeed I haven't read that still, but
I know vexj well there is such a book. My
father had no books but religions books;
they were all of a religions turn, and what
people might think dull, but they never made
me duU I read W^osley's and WattsTs hymns,
and religions magazines of different con-
nexions. I had a natural inclination for ths
sea, and would like to get to it now. rv«
read a good deal about it since — Clazk'i
« lives of Pirates,' 'Tales of Shipwrecks,' and
other things in penny numbera (Clark's I got
out of a libraiy though). I was what people
called a deep boy for a book ; and am s^
Whenever I had a penny, after I got a bellyftd
of victuals, it went for a book, but I havent
bought many lately. I did buy one yestord^y
— the 'Family Hendd' — one I often i«ad when
I can get it There's good reading in it; it
elevates your mind— ai^1>ody that has a mind
for studying. It has good tides in it I never
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
330
read *■ Jack Sheppard,' — that is, I haven't read
the hig book that's written about him ; but
I*Te often heard the boys and men talk about
it at the lodging-hoosee and other places.
TTken they haven't their bellies and money to
think about they sometimes talk about books ;
bat for such books as them — that's as ' Jack '
— I haven't a partiality. I've read * Windsor
Castle/ and *The Tower/ — they're by the
same man. I liked * Windsor Castle/ and all
about Henry VIIL and Heme the hunter.
It*8 a book that's connected with history, and
that's a good thing in it. I like adventurous
tales. I know very little about theatres, as I
waa never in one.
** Well, after that seven months — I was
kindly treated all the time — I runned away
again to get to sea ; and hearing so much talk
about this big London, I comed to it. I
couldn't settle down to anything but the sea.
I oft^i watched the ships at Wisbeach. I
had no particular motive, but a sort of pleasure
in it. I was aboard some ships, too; just
looking about, as lads wilL I started without
a furthing, but I couldn't help it. -I felt I
must come. I forgot all I suffered before —
' at least, the impression had died off my mind.
I came up by the unions when they would
take me in. When I started, I didn't know
where to ^eep any more than the dead; I
learned it from other travellers on the road.
It was two winters ago, and very cold weather.
Sometimes I slept in bams, and I begged my
w^ as well as I could. I never stole anything
then or since, except turnips; but I've been
often tempted. At last I got to London, and
was by myself. I travelled sometimes with
others as I come up, but not as mates — not
as friends. I camo to London for one purpose
just by myself. I was a week in London be-
fore I knew where I was, I didn't know where
to go. I slept on door-stcpe, or anywhere. I
used often to stand on London.bridge, but I
didn't know where to go to get to sea, or any.
thing of that kind. I was sadly hungered, regu.
larly starved ; and I saw so many policemen, I
durstn't beg — and I dare not now, in London.
I got crusts, but I can hardly tell how I lived.
One night I was sleeping under a railway-arch,
somewhere about Bishopsgate-street, and a
policeman came and asked me what I was up
to ? I told him I had no place to go to, so he
saild I must go along with him. In the
morning he took me and four or five others to
a house in a big street. I don't know where ;
and a man — a magistrate, I suppose he was
— heard what the policeman htui to say, and
he said there was always a lot of lads there
about the arches, young thieves, that gave him
a great deal of trouble, and I was one associated
with them:. I declare I didn't know any of the
other boys, nor any boys in London — not a
soul; and I was under the ardi by myself; and
only that night. I never saw the polioeman
himself before that, aa I know of. Igotfbor-
te«[i d^8 of it, and they took ma in an omnibus,
but I don't know to what jnison. I was com.
mitted for being a rogue and somethiug else.
I didn't very well hear what other thmgs I
was, but ' rogue ' I know was one. They were
very strict in prison, and I wasn't allowed to
speak. I was put to oakum some days, and
others on a wheeL That's the only time I
was ever in prison, and I h<^ it will always
be the only time. Something may turn up —
there's nobody knows. When I was turned out
I hadn't a farthing given to me. And so I was
again in the streets, without knowing a creature,
and without a farthing in my pocket, and
nothing to get one with but my tongue. I set
off that day for the country. I didn't try to
get a ship, because I didn't know where to go
to aak, and I had got ragged, and they wouldn't
hear me out if I asked any people about \X\e
bridges. I took the first road that offered,
and got to Greenwich. I eouldn't still think
of going back home. I would if I had had
clothes, but they were rags, and I had no
shoes but a pair of old slippers. I was some-
times sorry I left home, but then I began to
get used to travelling, and to b^ a bit in the
villages. I had no regular mate to travel witli,
aud no sweetheart. I slept in the unions
whenever I could get in — that's in tiie country.
I didn't never sleep in the London workhouses
till afterwards. In some country places there
were as many as forty in the casual wards, men,
women, and children; in some, only two or
three. There used to be part boys, like my-
self, but far more bigger than I was ; they were
generally frcMU eighteen to twenty-three :
London chaps, chiefly, I believe. They were a
regularly jolly set. They used to sing and
dance a part of the nights and mornings in the
wards, and I got to sing and dance with them.
We were all in a mess ; there was no better or
no worse among us. We used to sing comio
and sentimental songs, both. I used to sing
*■ Tom Elliott,' that's a sea song, for I han-
kered about the sea, and ' I'm Atioat.' I
hardly know any but sea-songs. Many used
to sing indecent songs; they're impudent
blackguards. They used to sell these songs
among the others, but I never sold any oi
them, and I never had any, though I luiow
some, from hearing them often. We told
stories sometimes ; romantic tales, some ; others
blackguard kind of tales, about bad women ;
and others about thieving and roguery ; not so
much about what they'd done Uiemselves, as
about some big thief that was very clever at
stealing, and c^d trick anybody. Not stories
such as Dick Turpin or Jack Sheppard, or
things that's in history, but inventions. I
used to say when I was telling a story — for
I've told one story that I invented till I learnt
it,—
[I give thia story to show what are the objects
of admiration with these Tagranta.]
** * You see, mates, there waa once upon a
time, and a very good time it was, a young
man, and he nuined awi^, aad got along with
300
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
a gang of thieves, and he went to a gentleman's
house, and got in, hecanse one of his mates
sweotheartod the sen-ant, and got her awaj,
and she left the door open.' [•* But don't," he
expostulated, *' take it all down that way ; it's
foolishness. I'm ashame<l of it — it's just
what we say to amuse ourselves.**] * And the
door being left open, the young man got in and
robbod the house of a lot of money, 1000/.,
and he took it to their gang at the cave. Next
day there was a reward out to find the robber.
Nobody found him. So the gentleman put
out two men and a horse in a field, and the
men were hidden in the field, and the gentle-
man put out a notice that anybody that could
catch the horse should have him for his
clevcmoR<?, and a reward as well ; for he thought
the man that got the 1000/. was sure to try to
catch that there horse, because he was so bold
and clever, and then the two men hid would
nab him. This here Jack (that's the young
man) was watching, and ho saw the two men,
and he went and cAught two live hares: Then
he hid himself behind a hedge, and let one
hare go, and one man said to the other, * There
goes a hare,' and they both run after it, not
thinking Jack's there. And while they were
running he let go the t'other one, and they
said, * There's another hare,* and they ran
different ways, and so Jack went and got the
horse, and took it to the man that offered the
reword, and got the reward ; it was 100/. ; and
the gentleman said * D n it, Jack's done me
this time.' The gentleman then wanted to
sen-e out the parson, and he said to Jack, * I'll
give you another 100/. if you'll do something
to the parson as bad as you've done to me.'
Jack said, * Well, I will ; ' and Jack went to the
church and lighted up the lamps, and rang the
bolls, and the parson he got up to see what
was up. Jack was standing in one of the pews
like an angel, when the parson got to the
church. Jack said, * Go and put your plate in
a bag ; I'm an angel come to take you up to
heaven.' And the parson did so, and it was
as much as he could drag to church fix)m his
house in a bag ; for he was very rich. And
when he got to the church Jack put the parson
in one bag, and the money stayed in the
other; and he tied them both together, and
put them across his horse, and took them up
hills and through water to the gentleman's,
and then he took the parson out of the bog,
and the parson was wringing wot. Jack
fetched the gentleman, and the gentleman
gave the parson a horsewhipping, and the
parson cut away, and Jack got nil the parson's
monoy and the second 100/., and gave it all to
the poor. And the parson brought an action
against the gentleman for horsewhipping him,
and they both were ruined. That's the end
of it' That's the sort of story that's liked
best, sir. Sometimes there was fighting in the
, casual-wards. Sometimes I was in it, I was
like the rest We jawed each other often,
calling names, and coming to fight at lost At
Romsey a lot of voung fellows broke all the
windows they could get at, because they were
too late to be admitted. They broke them
firom the outside. We couldn't get at them
from inside. I've carried on begging, and
going finom union to union to sleep, until now.
Once I got work in Northampton with a drover.
I kept working when he'd a job, ftom August
last to the week before Christmas. I always
tried to get a ship in a seaport, but couldn't.
I've been to Portsmouth. Plymouth, Bristol,
Southampton, Ipswich, Liverpool, Brighton,
Dover, Shoreham, Hastings, and aU through
Lincolnshire, Nottinghamshire, Cambridge-
shire, and Suffolk — not in Norfolk — ^they won*t
let you go there. I dont know why. All this
time I used to meet boys like myself, but
mostly bigger and older ; plenty of them could
read and write, some were gentlemen's sons,
they said. Some had their young women
with Uiem that they'd taken up with, but I
never was much with them. I often wished
I was at home again, and do now, but I can't
think of going back in these rags ; and I dcm't
know if my father's dead or alive (his voice
trembled), but I'd like to be there and have it
over. I can't face meeting them in these rags,
and I've seldom had better, I make so little
monoy. I'm unhappy at times, but I get over
it better than I used, as I get accustomed to
this life. I never hc»rd anything about home
since I left. I have applied at the Marine
Society here, but it's no use. If I could only
get to sea, I'd be happy ; and I'd be happy if I
could get home, and would, but for the reasons
I've told you."
The next was a boy with a quiet look, rather
better dressed than most of' the vagrant boys,
and for more clean in his dress. He made
the following statement : —
*' I am now seventeen. My father was a
cotton -spinner in Manchester, but has been
dead ten years ; and soon after that my mo-
ther went into the workhouse, leaving me with
an aunt ; and I hod work in a cotton factoiy.
As young as I was, I earned 2a. 2d. a-week at
first. I can read well, and can write a little.
I worked at the factoiy two years, and was then
earning 7f . a-week. I then ran away, for I had
always a roving mind; but I should have
stayed if my master hadn't knocked me about
so. I thought I should make my fortune in
London — I'd heard it was such a grand place.
I had read in novels and romances, — half^f^eniiy
and penny books, — about such things, bat
I've met with nothing of the kind. I started
without money, and begged my way from
Manchester to London, sajring I was going up
to look for work. I wanted to see Uie place
more than anything else. I suffered verj
much on the road, having to he out all night
often ; and the nights were cold, though it was
summer. When I got to London all my hopes
were blighted. I could get no fVtrther. I ne-
ver tried for work in London, for I believe there
are no cotton factories in it ; besides, I wanted
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOB.
801
to see life. I begged, and slept in the unions.
L got acquainted with plenty of boys like
myself. We met at the casual wards, both in
London and the country. I have now been
five years at this life. We were merry enough
in the wards, we boys, singing and telling
stories. Songs such as 'Paul Jones' was
liked, while some sung very blackguard songs ;
but X never got hold of such songs, though I
have sold lots of songs in Essex. Some told
long stories, very interesting ; some were not
fit to be heard; but they made one laugh
sometimes. I've read * Jack Sheppaixl '
through, in three volumes ; and I used to tell
stories out of that sometimes. We all told in
our turns. We generally began, — • Once upon
A time, and a very good Ume it was, though it
was neither in your time, nor my time, nor
nobody else's time.* The best man in the
stoiy is always called Jack."
At my request, this youth told me a long
stoiy, and told it very readily, as if by rote.
I give it for its peculiarity, as it is extra-
ragant enough, without humour.
** A farmer hired Jack, and instructed him
over-night. Jack was to do what he was
required, or lose his head. * Now, Jack,'
said the farmer, [I give the conclusion in
the boy's words,] * what's my name ? ' 'Mas-
ter, to be sure,' says Jack. * No,* said he, * you
must call me Tom Per Cent.' He showed his
bed next, and asked, 'What's this. Jack?'
• Why, the bed,' said Jack. ' No, you must
call that, He's of Degree.' And so he bid
Jaek call his leather breeches 'forty cracks;'
the cat, * white-faced Simeon ; ' the fire, ' hot
coleman;' the pump, the 'resurrection;' and
the haystack, the ' little cock-a-mountain.'
Jaek was to remember these names or lose his
head. At night the cat got under the grate,
and burned herself, and a hot cinder struck
her f^, and she ran under the haystack and
set it on fire. Jack ran up-stairs to his master,
and said :— >
* Tom Per Cent, arise out of he's of degree.
Put on your fortv cracks, come dowu and see ;
Vor the little whiie-iacod Simoon
HMrun away with hot oolemau
Under the little cock-a-mountain.
And without the aid of the resurrection
We shall be damned and burnt to death.'
So Jack remembered his lesson, and saved his
head. That's the end. Blackguard stories
were often told about, women. There was
plenty told, too, about Dick Turpin, Sixteen-
string Jack, Oxford Blue, and such as tliem ;
as weU as about Jack Sheppard ; about Bam-
fylde Moore Carew, too, and his disguises.
We very often had fighting and quarrelling
among ourselves. Once, at Birmingham, we
smashed all the windows, and did all the
damage we could. I can't teU exactly why it
was done, but we must aU take part m it, or
we should be marked. I believe some did
it to get into prison, they were so badly offl
They piled up the rugs ; there was no straw ;
and some put their clothes on the rugs, and
then the heap was set fire to. There was no
fire, and no Ught, but somebody had a box of
lucifers. We were all nearly suffocated before
the people of the place could get to us. Seven-
teen of us had a month a-piece for it : I was
one. The rugs were dirty and filthy, and not
fit for any Christian to sleep under, and so I
took part in the burning, as I thought it would
cause something better. I've known wild
Irishmen get into the wards with knives and
sticks hidden about their persons, to be I'eady
for a fight. I met two young men in Essex
who had been well off — very well,— but they
liked a tramper's life. Each had his young
woman with him, living as man and wife.
They often change their young women ; but I
never did travel with one, or keep company
with any more than twelve hours or so. There
used to be great numbers of girls in the
casual wards in London. Any young man
travelling the country could get a mate among
them, and can get mates — partners they're
often called, — still. Some of them are very
pretty indeed ; but among them are some hor-
rid ugly — the most are ugly; bad expressions
and coarse faces, and lame, and disgusting to
the eye. It was disgusting, too, to hear tliem
in their own company ; that is, among such as
themselves; — beggars, you know. Almost
every word was an oath, and every blackguard
word was said plain out. I think the pretty
ones were worst. Very few have children.
I knew two who had. One was seventeen, and
her child was nine months old ; the other was
twenty-one, and her child was eighteen months.
They were very good to their children. I've
heard of some having children, and saying
they couldn't guess at the fathers of tliem,
but I never met with any such myself. I
didn't often hear them quarrel, — I mean the
young men and yoimg women that wont out
as partners, — in the lodging-houses. Some
boys of fifteen have their young women as
^ partners, but with yoimg boys older women
I' are generally partners — women about twenty.
They always pass as man and wife. All beg-
I gar-girls are bad, I believe. I never heard
j but of one that was considered virtuous, and
I she was always reading a prayer-book and a
[ testament in her lodging-house. The last
time I saw her was at Cambridge. She is
about tliirty, and has traces of beauty left
The boys used to laugh at her, and say, ' Oh !
how virtuous and righteous we are ! but you
get your living by it.' I never knew her to
get anything by it. I don't see how she could,
for she said nothing about her being righteous
when she was begging about, I beheve. If i*
wasn't for the casual wards, I couldn't get
about. If two partners goes to the same
union, they have to be parted at night, and
join again the morning. Some of the young
women are very dirty, but some's as clean. A
few, I think, can read and write. Some boasts
of their wickedness, and others tell them in
302
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOB.
derision it's wrong to do that, and then a
qunrrel rages in the lodging-honse. I liked a
roTing life, at first, being my own master. I
was fond of going to plays, and snch-like,
when I got money ; but now I'm getting tired
of it, and wish for something else. I hare
tried for work at cotton fisctories in Lancashire
and Yorkshire, bat never could get any. I've
been all over the country. I'm sore I coold
settle now. I couldnt have done that two years
ago, the roving spirit was so strong upon me,
and the company I kept got a strong hold on
me. Two winters back, there was a regular
gang of us boys in London. After sleeping
at a union, we would fix where to meet at
night to get into anotlier union to sleep.
There were thirty of us that way, all boys ;
besides forty young men, and thirty young
women. Sometimes we walked the streets all
night. We didn't rob, at least I never saw any
robbing. We had pleasure in chaffing the
policemen, and some of us got taken up. I
always escaped. We got broken up in time,
— some's dead, some's gone to sea, some into
the country, some home, and some lagged.
Among them were many lads very eiq>ert in
reading, writing, and arithmetic. One young
man — he was only twenty-five, — could speak
several languages : he had been to sea. He
was thon begging, though a strong young
man. I suppose he liked that life: some
soon got tired of it I often have suffered
from cold and hunger. I never made more
than 3d, a-day in money, take the year round,
by begging ; some make more than (id, : but
then, I've had meat and bread given besides.
I say nothing when I beg, but that I am a
poor boy out of work and starving. I never
stole anything in my life. I've often been
asked to do so by my mates. I never would.
The young women steal the most. I know,
least, I did know, two that kept yotmg men,
their partners, going about the country with
them, chiofly by their stealing. Some do so
by their prostitution. Those that go as part-
ners are all prostitutes. There is a great
deal of sickness among the young men and
women, but I never was ill these last seven
years. Fevers, colds, and venereal diseases,
are very common."
The last statement I took was that of a boy
of thirteen. I can hardly say that he was
clothed at all. He had no shirt, and no waist-
coat; all his neck and a great part of his
chest being bare. A ragged cloth jacket hung
about him, and was tied, so as to keep it
togetlier, with bits of tape. What he liad
wrapped round for trousers did not cover one
of his legs, while one of his thighs was bare.
IIo wore two old shoes ; one tied to his foot
with an old ribbon, the other a woman's old
boot. Ho had an old cloth CB;p, His features
were distorted somewhat, through being swol-
len with the cold. " I was bom," he said, " at a
place calleil Hadley, in Kent. My father died
wlieu I was thi-e days old, Fve heard my mo-
ther say. He was married to her, I believe,
but I don't know what he was. She had on]|y
me. My mother went about begging, some-
times tailing me with her ; at other times she
left me at the lodging-house in Hadlej. She
went in the eonntry, roond about Tunhridge
and there, begging. Sometimes she had a
day's work. We had plenty to eat thfl&> but I
haven't had mnch lately. My mother died at
Hadley a year ago. I didn't know how the
was buried. She was ill a long time, and I
was out begging ; for she sent me oat to beg
for myself a good while before that, and when
I got back to the lodging.hoaae they told mu
she was dead. I had sixpence in my podret,
but I eooldn't help crying to think I'd kst my
mother. I cry about it stiU. I ^dn't wait to
see her buried, but I started on my own ac-
count I met two navvies in Bromley, and
tbcy paid my first night's lodging ; and theru
was a man passing, going to London with po-
tatoes, and the navvies gave the man a pot of
beer to take me up to London in the van, and
they went that way with me. I came to Lon-
don to beg, thinking I could get more there
than anywhere else, hearing that London was
such a good place. I begged ; but sometimes
wouldn't get a farthing in a day ; often walking
about the streets all mgfat I have been beg-
ging about all the time till now. I am very
we^ — starving to death. I never stole a^f*
thing : I always kept my hands to myaell A
boy wanted me to go witL him to pick a gen-
tleman's pocket We was mates for two days,
and then he asked me to go picking pockets ;
but I wouldn't I know it's wrong, though I
can neither read nor write. The boy asked
me to do it to get into prison, as that would
be better than the streets. He picked pockets
to get into prison. He was starving about the
streets like me. I never slept in a bed sinee
I've been in London : I am sure I haffcnt: I
generally slept under the dry arches in West-
street, where they're building houses— I mean
the arches for the cellars. I begged chiefly
from the Jews about Petticoat-lane, for they
all give away bread that their children leave—
pieces of crust, and such-like. I woold do
anything to be out of this miseiy."
Incbeise and Deoiiease of Numbeb of Ap-
plicants TO Casual Wabds of Lokdov
WOBKBOUSSS.
Thb vagrant applying for shelter is admitted
at all times of the day and night He applies
at the gate, he has his name entered in &e va-
grant book, and he is then supplied with six
ounces of bread and one ounce of cheese. As
the admission generally takes place in the even-
ing, no work is required of them until the lul-
lowing morning. At one time every vagrsnt
was searched and bathed, but in the cold sea-
soif of the year the bathing is diseontinaed;
neitlier are ihey searched unless there sra
grounds for suspeoting that they haTepropertr
LOV^OK LABOUR AND TBE LONDON POOR.
gecreted upon them. The males are conducted
to the Trard allotted to them, and the females
to their ward. These wards consist each of a
large chamber, in which are arranged two large
guard-beds, or inclined boards, similar to those
used in soldiers' giuird -rooms ; between these
there is a passage from one end of the cham-
ber to the otiier. The boards are strewn with
straw, so that, on entering the place in the day-
time, it has the appearance of a well-kept
stable. All persons are supplied with two, and
in the cold season with three, rugs to cover
them. These rugs are daily placed in a fumi-
gating oven, so as to decompose all infectious
matter. Formerly beds were supplied in place
of the straw, but the habitual vagrants used to
amuse ^emselves with cutting up the mat-
tresses, and strewing the flock all over the
place; the blankets and rugs they tore into
shreds, and wotmd tliem round their legs, un-
der their trousers. The windows of the casual
ward are protected on the inside with a strong
guard, similar to those seen in the neighbour-
hood of racket-grounds. No lights are allowed
ia the casual ward, so that they are expected
to retire to rest immediately on their entrance,
and this they invariably are glad to do. In the
morning they are let out at eight in the winter,
and seven in the summer. And then another six
ounces of bread and one ounce of cheese is
given to them, and they are discharged. In
return for this, three hours' labour at &e hand
oom-mill was formerly exacted ; but now the
mmibers are so few, and the out-door paupers
80 numerous, and so different f^om the class
of vagrants, that tlie latter are allowed to go
on their road immediately the doors of the
easual ward are opened. The labour formerly
exacted wns not in any way remunerative. In
the Uiree hours that they were at work, it is
supposed that the value of each man's labour
eoohl not be expressed in any coin of the realm.
The work was demanded as a test of destitu-
tion and industry, and not as a matter of com-
pensation. If the vagrants were very yoimg,
they were put to oakum-picking instead of the
hand-mill. The women were very rarely em-
ployed at any time, because there was no suit-
able place in the union fbr them to pick
oakum, and the master was unwiUing to allow
them, on account of their bad and immoral
characters, ns well as their filthy habits, to
communicate with the other inmates. The
female vagrants generally consist of prostitutes
of the lowest and most miserable kmd. They
are mostly young girls, who have sunk into a
state of dirt, disease, and almost nudity. There
are few of them above twenty years of age, and
they appear to have commenced their career
of vice frequently as early as ten or twelve
years old. They mosUy are found in the com-
pany of mere boys.
The above descriptions apply rather to the
state of the vagrants some two or three years
back, than to Uiings as they exist at present.
In the year 1837, a coxrespondenoe took place
between the Commissioners of Police and the
Commissioners of the Poor-law, in which the
latter declare that ** if a person state that he
has no food, and that he is destitute, or other-
wise express or signify that he is in danger of
perishing unless relief be given to him, then
any officer charged with the administration of
relief is bound, unless he have presented to
him some reasonable evidence to rebut such
statement, to give relief to such destitute per-
son in the mode prescribed by law." The Poor-
law Commissioners further declare in the same
document, that they will feel it their duty to
make the officers responsible in their situa-
tions for any serious neglect to give prompt
and adequate relief in any case of real destitu-
tion and emergency. The consequence of this
declaration was, that Poor-law officers ap-
peared to feel themselves bound to admit all
vagrants upon their mere statement of destitu-
tion, whereas before that time parties were
admitted into the casual wards either by tick-
ets from the ratepayers, or else according to
the discretion of the master. Whether or not
the masters imagined that they were compelled
to adn^it every applicant from that period my
informant cannot say, but it is certain that
after the date of that letter vagrancy began to
increase throughout the country 5 at first gra-
dually, but after a few years with a most enor-
mous rapidity; so that in 1848, it appeared
from the Poor-law Report on Vagraney (pre-
sented to both Houses of Parliament in that
year) that the number of vagrants had in-
creased to upwards of 16,000. The rate of
increase for the three years previous to that
period is exhibited in the following table : —
I. — Summaiy of the Number of Vagrants in
Unions and Places under Local Acts, in
England and Wales, at difi^rent periods,
as appears from the Returns which fol.
low: —
Average number relieved in one night \
in 603 Unions, <frc., in the week) 3,791
ending 20th December, 1845 ;
Average number relieved in one night \
in 603 Unions, ftc, in the week} 2,224
ending 1 9th December, 1840 )
Average number relieved in one night \
in 596 Unions, &C., in the week) 4,008
ending 18th December, 1847 )
Total number relieved, whether in or )
outof the workhousein 626 Unions, } 16,080
&c., on the 25th March, 1848 )
Matters had reached this crisis, when the
late Mr. 0. BuUer, President of the Poor-law
Board, issued, in August 1848, a ndnute, in
which— after stalang that the Board had re-
ceived representations from every part of Eng-
land and Wales respecting the continual and
rapid increase of vagrancy— he gives the fol-
lowing instructions to the officers employed in
the administration of the Poor-law :—
No. LXXVII.
394
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
^'With respect to the applicants that will
thus come before him, the relieving officer will
havo to exercise his judgment as to the truth
of their assertions of destitution, and to ascer-
tain by searching them whether they possess
any means of supplying their own necessities.
He will not be likely to err in judging from their
appearance wheUier they ore suffering from
want of food. He will take care that women
and children, the old and infirm, and those
who, without absolutely serious disease, pre-
sent an enfeebled or sickly appearance, are
supplied with necessary food and shelter. As
a general rule, he would be right in refusing
relief to able-bodied and healthy men ; though
in inclement weather he might afford them
shelter, if really destitute of the means of
procuring it for themselves. His duUes
would necessarily make him acquainted with
the persons of the habitual vagrants; and
to these it would be his duty to refuse
relief, except in case of evident and urgent
necessity.
** It was found necessary by the late Poor-
law Commissioners at one time to remind the
various unions and their officers of the respon-
sibility which would be incurred by refusing
relief where it was required. The present state
of things renders it necessary that this Board
should now impress on ihem the grievous
mischiefs that must arise, and the responsibi-
lities that may be incurred, by a too ready dis-
tribution of relief to tramps and vagrants not
entitled to it. Boards of guardians and their
officers may, in their attempts to restore a
more wise and just system, be subjected to
some obloquy from prejudices that confound
poverty with profligacy. They will, however,
be supported by Uie consciousness of dis-
charging their duty to those whose frmds they
have to administer, as well as to the deserving
poor, and of resisting the extension of a most
pernicious and formidable abuse. They may
confidently reckon on the support of public
opinion, which the present state of things has
aroused and enlightened ; and those who are
responsible to the Poor-law Board may feel
asstured that, while no instance of neglect or
hardship to the poor will be tolerated, they
may look to the Board for a candid construc-
tion ct their acts and motives, and for a hearty
and steadfast support of those who shall exert
themselves to gufuxi from the grasp of impos-
ture that fund which should be sacred to the
necessities of the poor."
. Thus authorised and instructed to exercise
their own discretion, rather than trust to the
mere statements of the vagrants themselves,
the officers immediately proceeded to act upon
the suggestions g^ven in the minute above
quoted, and the consequence was, that the
number of vagrants diminished more rapidly
even than they had increased throughout the
country. In the case of one union alone —
the Wandsworth and Clapham — the following
returns will show both how vagrancy was fos-
tered under the one system, and how it has
declined under the other : —
The number of vagrants admitted into the
casual ward of Wandsworth and Clapham was,
In 1840
. 6,750
1847
. 11.323
1848
. 14,075
1849
. 8,900
In the quarter ending Jane 1848, previously
to the issuing of the minute, the nimib^ ad-
mitted was 7325, whereas, in the quarter end-
ing December, after the minute had beoi
issued, the number fell to 1035.
The cost of relief for casuals at the same
union in the year 1848 was 94/. 2«. 9|il.; in
1849 it was 24/. 10s. IK
The decrease throughout -all London has
been equally striking. From the returns of
the Poor-law Conmussioners, as subjoined, I
find that the total number of vagrants relieved
in the metropolitan unions in 1847-48 wm
no less than 310,058, whereas, in the year
1848-40, it had decreased to the extent of
166,000 and odd, the number relieved for that
year being only 143,004.
During the great prevalence of vagrancy,
the cost of the sick was far greater than the
expense of relief. In the quarter ending
Jime 1848, no less than 822 casuals were
under medical treatment, either in the work-
house of the Wandsworth and Clapham union
or at the London Fever Hospital. The whole
cost of curing the casual sick in 1848 was near
upon 800/., whereas, during 1840 it is com-
puted not to have exceeded 30/.
Another curious fact, illustrative of the
effect of an alteration in the administration of
the law respecting vagrancy, is to be found in
the proportion of vagrants committed for acts
of insubordination in the workhouses. In the
year 1846, when those who broke tlie law were
committed to Brixton, where the diet was
better than that allowed at the workhouse—
the cocoa and soup given at the treadmill be-
ing especial objects of attraction, and indeed
the allowance of food being considerably
higher there — ^the vagrants generally brolro
the windows, or tore their clothes, or burnt
their beds, or refused to work, in order to be
committed to the treadmill; and this got to
such a height in that year, that no less than
467 persons were charged and convicted with
disorderly conduct in the workhouse. In the
year following, however, an alteration was
made in the diet of prisoners sentenced to not
more than fourteen days, and the prison of
Kingston, of which they had a greater terror,
was substituted for that of Brixton, and then
the number of committals decreased from 467
to 57 ; while in 1848, when the number of
vagrants was more than double what it had
been in 1846, the committals again fell to 97 ;
and in 1840, out of 3000 admissions, there
were only 10 committed for insubordination.
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
809
VAGRANTS, OR TRAMPS, ADMITTED INTO THE WORKHOUSES OF THE
METROPOLITAN DISTRICTS DURING THE YEARS 1847-8 AND 1848-9.
WOBKIlOtFSEfl.
KcmiT^Htaa , >» .. . *.
Clielieii ...........................
YuXh^m
Hi Georfv. Ha«o*cir'»4iiiAre.
8t, MMriJji-in-t1i«-KLQlldi .....
fit, JAcnefl, Wesunlniter........
RfLTj^vbaue , „..,....„,,...,
P*dd in j{to>n ...,.,..,.,,... I,.....,, ,^ ..
HftinpitjMd ,., ^^„H,« „.,,«,..„ ,^ „. ,
it. Puneru »»«.,«...***...»».
IfllLngton.*. ...*..»«........,..,..
ffMktitjf ........ .»..^. ..,*^,M..
li. GUd »... .,.,
itmxl .««... .«..,..«,4.».,,»,,,-.^t^..
Cttr¥«n«eU .*,«»♦. *^, *,,„♦..
U. Luk#'i ...,. ,.„.„.,„»...
EMt Loadva „,
West Ijjndoo ,,.*.....„..,.....*...
LAtukiti CHj .......*. *,...
Shur«{lUcb ...... ...+4^ „»,„,„„..,
Dethn&l-'greeii m^,„«»»......^....
Wiiittch*|)cl ...„„., .....,...,„„
81. Gtcirge^LDklbe^EaM ....,.„
Stepn4; ...„„.,.».,..,
Foplmr ........,...*,,.„,.
it. fiaTiaoTp HouttucKrli ........
It-Olnf*..............
Bflnf»in4i#7 ....
fit. OeoilEfi. Southwftrk
NewlnftDd ........... ,,,.,„,...,,
Lunbeth ,Kh*H, ,..+.+.. .*., ,..«......
Wuidi^wortli .„„..,.*
Cftfnitrrwf'll ,.,... .t*--......
EotherhUHQ ...*,»
Gneenfflc]] * ^,. ,,...,.
L« wlAhtm
Total
FOpvil'
*Q.I7r
aiT7a
25,1 *J3
37 .1^
9M73
li«H47y
4'J,1]74
&4.'ili3
43.^91
S3.045
^£i,7.■>li
33,0:e?
M,@*;7
S3^4»a
74,081
7t,7M
4I,J51
SI.OBI
M,94T
4«,fita
fl|,60G
]3.&L<i
BO.HII
33,013
Fbtt 0,0*1
ftAdjQf
184'
3,»oa
V,4M
MI4
1.M4
&4t
im;
4,10!)
HA
691
1 J/0
8,703
4,r».'i4
4,a»
S73
3,444
S07
S75
1*977
13
ivr, enAmv
4,607
2,57.^
i4T
im
1^4^
7^437
Q44
3 10
174
43
117^
9*13
S.4*H
ft.709
I ,MiS
441
t,074
31
4, BO I
^Sh
7
3,6Ta
3JU6
44.-i
2S3
9
1.3119
10
a,973
3,637
J 37
2,083
7(1
lOfi
1 .063
3,34«
43
Ml
3.S73
»M{
731
4*414
4,,%7»
4h31I»
3,4ri3
1,17S
4,03^
7, MO
3,374
TOG
3,436
4
rtiinl 9iiiireA,
}u*i m»
I.S33I \&hQ
4.l4fi; ^,e04
157 1,353
M09
1,459
4i439
374
\a
a*S34
5
1.D80
1.390
1,476
CIS
3,4W
474
S
3,31 lj
I ,»4 T
674
J,3fl7
4{^
43f9
3S4
S.IOO
9,7 1 4i
)04
1*438
6.W7
1,439
2il0
100
3,040
4,301
115
i,a«3
3.96G
U*«0O
IJ3I
454
4.5Sa
7.977
fi,5e4
1.240
4*917
6*730
1,635
309
4,761
18
7
3, 1^9
453
I,"m5
1,515
1.516
80
3fj
i,ni
1,975
1,914
381
1,954
53N
M23
3]^4
378
131
ST3
1,344
793
917
4il
T
**. 76,130 flj JW 70*ii0 5S.156 9e,S4G 38,335 n.iSt* tG,74fi aiO^Ofii i4»,C04
Of the character of the vagrants frequentixig
the unions in the centre of the metropolis, and
the system pursued there, one description will
serve as a type of the whole.
At the Holbom workhouse (St Andrew's)
there are two casual wards, established just
after the passing of the Poor-law Amendment
Act in 1834. The men's ward will contain 40,
and the women's 20. The wards are under-
ground, but dry, clean, and comfortable. When
Uiere was a " severe pressure from without,"
as a porter described it to me, as many as 106
men and women have been received on one
night, but some were disposed in other parts
of the workhouse away from the casual
wards.
** Two years and a half ago, * a glut of
Irish • " (I give the words of my informant)
"came over and besieged the doors inces-
santly ; and when above a hundred were ad-
mitted, &s many were remaining outside, and
when locked out they lay in the streets
stretched along by the almshouse close to the
workhouse in Gray's-inn-lane." I again give
the statement (which afterwards was verified)
verbatim : — ^" They lay in camps," he said, ** in
their old cloaks, some having brought blankets
and rugs with them for the purpose of sleeping
out; pots, and kettles, and vessels for cook-
ing when they camp; for in many parts of
Ireland they do nothing — I've beanl from
people that have been there — but wander
about; and these visitors to the workhouse
behaved just like gipsies, combing their hair
and dressing themselves. The girls' heads,
some of them, looked as if they were full of
caraway seeds — vermin, sir— shocking ! I had
to sit up all night; and the young women
from Ireland — fine-looking young women;
some of them finer-looking women than the
English, well made and well formed, but vm-
cultivated — seemed happy enough in the
casual wards, singing songs all night long,
but not too loud. Some would sit up all night
washing their clothes, coming to me for water.
They had a cup of tea, if Uiey were poorly.
They made themselves at home, the children
did, as soon as they got inside; they ran
about Uke kittens used to a place. The young
women were often full of joke ; but I never
heard an indecent word from any of them, nor
an oath, and I have no doubt, not in the least,
896
LONDON LABOUB AND THE LONDON POOS.
that they were chaste and modest Fine
young women, too, sir. I have said, *Pity
young women like yon should be carrying on
this way ' (for I felt for them), and they would
say, *What can we do? It's better than
starving in Ireland, this workhouse is.' I used
to ask Uiem how they got over, and they often
told me their passages were paid, chiefly to
Bristol, Liverpool, and Newport, in Mon-
mouthshire. They told me that was done to
get rid of them. They told me that they
didn't know by whom; but some said, they
believed the landlord paid the captain.
Some declared they knew it, and that it was
done just to get rid of Uiem. Others told me
the captain would bring them over for any
trifle they had ; for he would say, ' I shall
have to take you back again, and I can charge
my price then.' The men were uncultivated
fellows compared to the younger women. We
have had old men with children who could
speak English, and the old man and his wife
could not speak a word of it. When asked
the age of their children (the children were
the interpreters), they woiild open the young
creatures' mouths and count their teeth, just
as horse-dealers do, and then they would tell
the children in Irish what to answer, and the
children would answer in English. The old
people could never tell their own age. The
man would give his name, but his wife would
give her maiden name. I would say to an
elderly man, • Give me your name.* * Dennis
Murphy, your honour.' Then to his wife,
* And your name V * The widdy Mooney, your
honour.' * But you're married V • Sure, then,
yes, by Father .' This is the case with them
still. Last night we took in a family, and I
asked the mother — there was only a woman
and three children — her name. * The widdy
Callaghan, indeed, then, sir.' <But your
Christian name?** The widdy,' (widow,) was
the only answer. It's shocldng, sir, what
ignorance is, and what their suiferings is.
My heart used to ache for the poor creatures,
and yet they seemed happy. Habit's a g^at
thing — second nature, even when people's
shook. The Irishmen behaved well among
themselves; but the English cadgers were
jealous of the Irish, and chafied them, as
spoiling their trade-— that's what the cadging
fellows did. The Irish were quiet, poor
things, but they were provoked to quarrel,
and many a time I've had to turn the English
rips out. The Irish were always very thankful
for what they had, if it was only a morsel; the
English cadger is never satisfied. I don't
mean the decent beat-out man, but the regular
cadger, that won't work, and isnt a good beg-
gar, and won't starve, so they steed. Once,
now and then, there was some suspicion about
the Irish admitted, that they had money, but
that was never but in those that had families.
It was taken from them, and given back in the
morning, They wouldn't have been admitted
again if they had any amount. It was a kind-
ness to take their money, or the EngHab naeals
would have robbed them. I'm an Englishman,
but I speak the truth of my own conntrymen,
as I do of the Iriah. The English we had in
the casual wards were generally a bad cadging
set, as sanoy as could be, particularly men
that I knew, from their accent, came from
Nottinghamshire. I'd tell one directly. I've
heard Uiem, of a night, brag of their dodses—
how they'd done Uirough the day — ana the
best places to get money. They would talk
of gentlemen in London. I've often heard
them say, , in Piccadilly, was good ; but
they seldom mentioned names, only described
the houses, especially club-houses in St
James's-street. They would tell just where it
was in the street, and how many windbws
there was in it, and the best time to go, and
* you're sure of grub,' they'd say. Then they'd
tell of gentlemen's seats in the countiy — sura
cards. They seldom give names, and, I be-
lieve, dont know them, bat described the
houses and the gentlemen. Some were good
for bread and money, some for bread and ale.
As to the decent people, we had bat few, snd
I used to be sorry for them when they had to
mix with the cadgers ; but when the cadgers
saw a stranger, they used their slang. I wts
up to it I've heard it many a night when I
sat up, and they thonght I was asleep. I
wasn't to be had like the likes o* them. The
poor mechanic would ait like a lost man —
scared, sir. There might be one deserving
character to thirty cadgers. We have had
gipsies in the casual wards ; but they're not
admitted a second time, ihey steal so. We
haven't one Scotch person in a month, or a
Welshman, or perhaps two Welshmen, m a
montU, among the casuals. They come firom
all counties in England. I've been told by
inmates of *the casual,* that they had got
2$, 6d. from the relieving officers, particularly
in Essex and Suffolk — difRerent unions— to
start them to London when the * straw-yards'
(the asylums for the houseless) were opened;
but there's a many very decent people. How
they suffer before they come to that ! you cant
fancy how much; and so there should be
straw-yards in a Christian land — ^we'll call it a
Christian land, sir. There's far more good
people in the straw-yards than the casuals ;
the dodgers is less frequent there, considering
the numbers. It's shocking to think a decent
mechanic's houReless. When he's beat ont,
he's like a bird out of a cage ; he doesnt
know where to go, or how to get a bit — but
don't the cadgers !" The expense of relieving
the people in the casual ward was twopence
per head, and the numbers admitted for the
last twelTe months averaged oi^y twelve
nightly."
I will now give the statements of some of
the inmates of the casual wards themselves.
I chose only those at first who were habitual
vagrants.
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOB.
807
Estimate ov Nuvbebs and Cost of
Yaoaamts.
Let me first endeavour to arrive at some
estimate as to the number and cost of the
vagrant population.
There were, according to the returns of the
Poor-law Commissioners, 13,547 vagrants re-
lieved in tmd out of the workhouses of
England and Wales, on the 1st of July, 1848.
In addition to these, the Occupation Abstract
informs us that, on the night of the 6th of
June, 1841, when the last census was taken,
20,348 individuals were living in bams and
tents. But in order to arrive at a correct
estimate of the total number of vagrants
throughout the country, we must add to the
abo^e numbers the inmates of the trampers'
houses. Now, according to the Heport of tlie
Constabulaxy Commissioners, there were in
1839 a nightly averago of very nearly 5000
vagrants infesting some 700 mendicants' lodg-
in^.houses in London and six other of the
principal towns of England and Wales. (See
"London Labour,- VoL I. p. 408.) Further,
it will be seen by the oalculationa given at
the same, that there are in the 3823 postal
towns throughout the country (averaging two
trampers' houses to each town, and ten tramp-
ers nightly to each house), and 70,400 other
vagrants distributed throughout England and
Wales.
Hence the calculation as to the total nam*
oer of vagrants would stand thus ^-^
In the workhouses . . . 13,647
In bams and tents (according to
census) 20,348
In the mendicants' houses of Lon- \
don, and six other principal (
towns of England and Wales, I 4,813
according to Constabulary Com- /
missioners' Report .
Ditto in 3820 other postal towns, \
averaging each two mendicants' I ^q aqt.
houses, and ten bdgers to each ( '
• house ;
115,108
Deduct five per cent for characters i . ^k«
really destitute and deserving . J o,iod
Total number of habitual va- \ iaaokq
grants in England and Wales / ^""»^'^»
The cost of relieving these vagrants may be
computed as follows:— On the night of the
1st of July, 1848, there were 13,547 vagranU
relieved throughout England and Wales ; but
I am informed by the best authorities on the
subjer^t, that one- third of this number only can
be fairly estimated as receiving relief eveiy
night throughout the year at the different
anions. Now, the third of 13,547 is 4515,
and this, multiplied by 865, gives 1,647,075
M the total number of cases of vagrancy re-
lieved throughout England and Wales daring
the year 1848. The cost of each of these is
estimated at twopence i>er head per night for
food, and this makes the sum expended in
their relief amount to 18,733/. 7s. Sd.
In addition to this, we must estimate the
sum given in charity to Uie mendicants, or
carried off surreptitiously by the petty thieves
frequenting the trampiug-houscs. The sums
thus abstracted fh>m the public may be said
to amount at the lowest to 6<i. per day for
each of the trampers not applying for relief at
the workhouses. In the Constabulary Be«
port, p. 11, the earnings of the petty thieves
are estimated at 10«. per week, and those of
the beggars at ds. dd. per day (p. 24). Hence
we have the foUowing account of the total cost
of the vagrants of England and Wales : —
Sum given in relief to the
vagrants at the work,
houses . . . .
Sum abstracted by them,
either by begging or pil-
fering on the road .
^13,783 7 8
188,888 11 8
^152,021 10 4
As five per bent must be)
taken offthis for the truly} 7,631 1 8
deserving • .)
The total cost win be . ^6144,900 17 8
By this it appears that the total number of
professional vagrants dispersed throughout
England and Wales amounU to 47,669. These
live at the expense of the industrious
classes, and oost the countiy no less than
144,990/. 17«. 8d. per annum. And if the
13,()00 and odd vagrants relieved in the work-
houses constitute merely the twentieth dis-
persed throughont the country, we have in
round numbers nearly 3,000,000/. for the cost
of the whole.
There are, then, no less than 100,000 indi-
viduals of the lowest, the filthiest, and most
demoralised classes, continually wandering
through the countiy ; in other wonU, there is
a stream of vice and disease — a tide of ini-
quity and fever, continually flowina firom
town to to^Ti, from one end of tha land to
the other.
** One of the worst concomitants of vagrant
mendicancy," says the Poor-law Report, 'Ms
the fever of a dangerous typhoid character,
which has universally marked the path of the
mendicants. There is scarcely a workhouse
in which this pestilence does not prevail in a
greater or less degree, and numerous anion
officers have fallen victim t to it" Those who
are acquainted wiUi the exceeding flHh of the
persons frequenting the oaaual wards, will not
wonder at the fever which fbllows in the wake
308
LONDON LABOUR AND TBE LONDON POOB.
of the vagrants. " Manj have the itch. I
have seen," says Mr. Boase, •* a party of
twenty almost all scratching tliemselves at
once, 'before settling into their rest in tlie
straw. Lice exi«*t in great numbers upon
thorn."
That vftgnincy is tlie nursery of crime, and
tliat the habitual tramps are first the beggars,
then the thieves, and, finally, the convicts of
the country, the evidence of all parties goes to
prove. There is, however, a curious corrobo.
ration of the fact to be found, by referring to
the period of life at which both crime and
vagrancy seem to be in their youth. The ages
of the vagrants frequenting the asylums for
the houseless poor, are chiefly between fifteen
and twenty-five years old ; and the tables of
the ages of the criminals, given in the
Government Returns, show that the miyority
of persons convicted of crime are equaUy
young.
The total number of vagrants in the me-
tropolis may be calculated as follows : — There
were 310,058 vagrants relieved at the metro-
politan unions during the year 1848. (I take
the metropolitan returns of 1848, because those
for England and Wales published as yet only
extend to that year.) As the vagrants never
remain two days in the same place, we must
divide this number by 365, in order to ascer-
tain the number of vagrants resident at one
and the same time in London. This gives us
840 for the average number relieved each night
in the whole of the metropolitan unions. To
this we must add the 2431 tramps residing in
the 221 metropolitan mendicants' lodging-
houses (averaging 11 inmates each); and the
sum of these must be fUrther increased by the
750 individuals relieved nightly at the asylums
for the houseless poor (including that of
Market -street, Edgeware-road), for the majority
of these seldom or never make their appear-
ance in the casual wards of the metropolis,
but are attracted to London solely by the
opening of the asylums. Hence the account
will stand as follows: —
Average number of vagranta relieved! g.^
night in the metropolitan unions . j
Average number of vagrants resident in
the mendicants' lodging-houses in
London
Average number of individuals relieved \
nt the metropolitan asylums for the |
houseless poor . . , . )
2431
760
4030
Now, as 5 per cent of this amount is said
to consist of characters really destitute and
dt'serving, we arrive at the conclusion that
there are 3820 vagrants in London, living
either by mendicancy or theft.
The cost of the vagrants in London in the
year 1848 may be estimated as follows : —
810,058 vagrants relieved at|
the metropolitan unions, at \
the cost of 2d, per head . ;
67,500 nights' lodgings af-'
forded to the houseless poor
at the metropolitan asylum s,
includingthe West-end Asy-
lum, Market-street, Edge-
ware road . . . .,
2,431 inmates of the mendi-'
cants' lodging-houses in
London, gaining upon an
average 1«. per day, or
altogether per year
£ 9.
2,584 13
3,134 1 4i
44,365 15 0
ie50,084 0 4i
Deduct 5 per cent for the cost \
of the relief of the truly [ 2,504 4 5
deserving . . . .;
The total will then be . ^£47,580 4 Hi
It appears, then, that there are 8820 ha-
bitual vagrants in the metropolis, and the
cost for their support annually amoonts to
47,580/. 4«. Hid.
The number of metropolitan beggars ig
considerably increased on the eve of any
threatened disturbances, or any large open-air
meeting in London. For several days previous
to the Chartist display in 1848, there was an
influx of 100 tramps over and above the ordi-
nary quantity, each day, at one union alone in
the suburbs of London; and the master
assured me that on the night of the meeting
on Kennington Common, he overheard the
inmates of the casual ward boasting how they
had assisted in pillaging the pawnbroker's
house that had been broken into that after-
noon.
Well might the master of the Wandsworth
and Clapham Union say, therefore, that the
vagrants form one of the most restless, dis-
contented, vicious, and dangerous elements
of society. Of these we have seen that there
are about 100,000 dispersed throughout the
country, 4000 of whom, in round numbers,
are generally located in London. These con-
stitute, in the words of the same gentleman,
the main source from which the criminals are
continually recruited and augmented.
Routes ov the Vagrants.
I was desirous of ascertaining some inform-
ation concerning the routes of the vagrants
and the reason why they frequent one mstrict
or county more than another. It will be seen
fix>m the following table, computed firom the
Poor-Law Returns for the Ist July, 1848, that
the vagrants were far from equally distributed
over the coimtry at that period.
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON FOQtl,
BOO
NUMBER OF VAGRANTS RELIEVED IN THE DIFFERENT COUNTIES OF
ENGLAND AND WALES ON THE IST OF JULY, 1848.
Durham
. 1425
Essex .
. 147 Oxfordshire .
40
Middlesex .
. 1393
Northamptonshire
136
Carmarthenshire .
46
Lincolnshire .
. 1855
Wiltshire
. 135
Radnorshire .
40
West Riding.
. 1197
Westmoreland
. 130
Denbighshire
. 45
Cumberland .
. 1087
Nottinghamshire .
129
Dorsetshire .
43
Lancashire .
. 673
Norfolk.
128
Cardiganshire
39
Southampton
. C48
North Riding
105
Carnarvonshire .
38
Derbyshire .
. 541
Bedfordshire
102
Buckinghamshire .
28
Warwickshire
. 509
Hertfordshire
. 100
Suffolk . . .
21
Monmouthshire
. 476
Devonshire .
94
Cambridgeshire
20
Staffordshire .
. 351
Cheshire
92
Brecknockshire
17
Surrey .
. 319
Somersetshire
88
Pembrokeshire
. 15
Glamorganshire
. 244
Shropshire .
80
Montgomeryshire .
14
Worcestershire
. 227
Huntingdonshire .
75
Anglesea
11
Kent .
. 179
Leicestershire
72
Flintshire
10
Berkshire
. 175
Cornwall
63
Rutlandshire
6
Northumberland
East Riding .
. 172
. 152
Merionethshire .
Gloucestershire .
54
62
Total . .
13,547
Sussex .
. 150
Herefordshire
. 48
In order to discover the cause of this
unequal distribution, I sought out a person,
whom I knew to be an experienced trtonper,
and who had offered to give any information
that I might require upon the subject. There
wan a strange mystery about the man. It was
evident, both from his manner and his features,
that he had once been well to do in the world.
He was plainly not of tlie common order of
vagrants, though his dress was as filthy and
ragged as that of the generality of the class.
** I have been right through the countiy on
the tramp," he said, " about six or seven
summers. What I was formerly I do not
wish to state. I have been much better off.
I was, indeed, in receipt of a very large income
at one time ; but it matters not how I lost it.
I would rather that remained a secret You
may say that I lost it through those follies and
extravagancies that are incident both to the
higher and the lower classes ; but let it pass.
You want to know about the habits and
characters of the vagrants generally, and there
is no necessity for my going into my private
history, further than saying, I was a gentleman
once, and I am a vagrant now. I have been
so for the last six years. I generally start off
into the country about April or May. I stay,
after the refuges are closed, until such time
as I have tired out all the unions in and around
London. I go into the countiy because I am
known at all the casual wards in the metro-
polis, and they will not let atramper in a
second time if they know it, except at the
City of London, and there I have been allowed
to stay a montli together. The best of the
casual w^ards used to be in Bermondsey, but
they are closed there now, I believe, as well
as many of the others ; however, the vagrants
seldom tliink of going to the London unions
until after the refuges are closed, because at
the refuges the accommodation is better, and
no work is required. I know that the vagrants
come purposely to London in large bodies
about the end of December, on purpose to
sleep at the refuges for the winter. I myself
always make it a point to come up to town
every winter, so as to have my lodgings for
nothing at the refuge, not being able to get it
by any other means. There are at the refuges,
of course, many worthy objects of charity. I
have met with men who have become desti-
tute, certainly not through any fault of their
own; a good many of such persons I have
found. But still the greater number at such
places are persons who are habitual vagabonds
and beggars, and many thieves. As the re-
ftiges are managed at present, I consider they
do more harm than good. If there were no
such places in London in the winter, of course
I, and such as are like me, would have been
driven to find shelter at our parishes ; whereas
the facilities they afford for obtaining a night's
shelter — to the vagabond as well as to the
destitute — ai-e such that a large number of the
most depraved and idle classes are attracted to
London by them. I believe some such places
to be necessary, in order to prevent persons
dying of cold and starvation in the streets, but
they should be conducted on a different plan.
You see I tell you the truth, although it may
be against my own interest. After these
refuges are dosed, and the unions round the
suburbs are shut against me, as far as Rich-
mond, Kingston, Bromley, Romford, Stratford,
Greenwich, and similar distances from the
metropolis, 1 generally proceed upon my
travels for the summer. Those who make a
practice of sleeping at the casual wards are
vagrants either by nature, by habit, or by
400
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
force of circumstances. They generally sup-
port themselves by begging or thieving, and
oft«n by both. They are mostly boys, from
about nine up to twenty years of age. The
othen are prindpaUy Irish beggars, and a very
few arc labourers and meohanics out of work.
The youths I beheve to be, with some eroep-
tir^ns, naturally bad, and almost irreclaimable.
I know that many of them have been made
▼agrants by harsh treatment at home; they
have run away. They have been threatened
to b<; punished, generally for going to some
place of amusement, as Greenwich fair, or
* penny ga£b,' — that is, to the low theatres;
and, being afraid to return, they have sought
shelter, first at the low lodging-houses, and
when they have had no money left, they have
gone to the casual wards of the unions. Other
boys have contracted bad habits from being
allowed by their parents to run about the
streets and pick up vagabond companions.
These soon initiate them into their mode of
life, and they then leave their homes in order
to follow it. This is the way that most of the
lads are depraved. I am sure that the fault
lies more with the parents than with the boys
themselves. The lads are either neglected or
ill.treated in their youth. Some of the lads
ore left destitute; they are left orphans —
probably to the care of some distant relation
or friend » and the lads very soon find that
they are not treated or cared for like the other
members of the family, and they take to the
streets. The mijority of the vagrants are
very sharp, intelligent lads, and I believe they
are induced to take to a vagabond life by the
low lodging-houses, the casual wards, and the
refuges. These make shelter and provision so
easy to them, that they soon throw off the
restraint of their parents or guardians. Were
there a greater difficulty of obtaining food and
lodging, I am sure that there would certainly
not be the number of juvenile vagrants that
there are. The IriRh people who resort to
the casual wards are beggars at heart and soul.
Many of them I know have lodgings of their
own, and they will give them up at the time
the refuges are open. Some I have known
to go into the refuge with the whole of their
family on the Saturday niglit, and stop all
Sunday, till the Monday morning, for the ex-
press pur]>oHo of obtaining the bread and
ohcoso which is given away there on the
Sunday. The children have the same allow,
anoo as the parents, and the mother and father
take all the young ones they can into the
]ilace, to get the greater quantity. This they
take bock home with them, and it serves to
kecD them the greater part of the week. The
Irisn, I think, do not make a point of travel-
ling the country so much as the English
vagrants. When they go into the provinces,
it is generally to get work at harvesting, or
•talo getting, or hop-picking; not like the
English, for the mere sake of vagabondising.
" The low Irish do better in London. They
are the best beggars we have. They have
more impudence and more blarney, and there-
fore they do much better than we can at it A
very large portion of the Irish beggars in London
are in possession of mohey, which they have
secreted about them in some way or other. I
recollect seeing one Lrishman have S$. taken
from him by the vagrant boys in the casual
ward of St George's Workhouse, in the
Borough. The boys generally suspect the
Irish vagrants of having money on their per-
sons ; and I have often seen a number of them
hold, or, as they call it, ' small-gang,' an Irish
beggar in the darkness of the casual wards,
while some of the other boys rifled the Irish-
man's pockets. The labomrers and mechanics
are generally the only parties to be found in the
casual wards who are driven there through
destitution. I have known many an honest,
industrious, working man, however, made a
regular beggar and vagrant by continued use
of the oasufd wsrds. They are driven there
first by necessity, and then they learn that
they can Uve in such places throughout the
year without working for their Uvelihood.
Many a hard-working man, I am convinced,
is made idle and dishonest by such means :
yes, that is the case. There are some that I
know now, who have been going the round of
the different reftiges for not less than seven—
ay, you may say for nine years. They were
origmally labouring men, or mechanics, and
had given over all thoughts of working, finding
that there was no necessity to do so in order ti)
live.
"The regular vagrant leaves toi^n every
year about April, or the beginning of May. A
veiT large portion of the wandering beggars
and thieves would remain in town if thejr were
allowed to remain longer in their nightly
haunts ; but after the closing of the refhffes,
the system of not permitting them more uan
one night in the same union forces them to b«
continually on the move : so they set off im-
mediately they have made themselves known
at all the workhouses. The boys will mostly
go in small gangs of twos and tnrees. Before
(hey start, they generally pick up ih)m some
other gang whom Uiey meet in the London
wards, the kind of treatment and relief they
will receive at the country unions, and they
regulate their journey accordingly ; and they
will very often go one or two days' march ont
of their w^, in order to avoid some union
that has a bad character among them, or to
get to some other union where the accommo-
dation is good, and the work required of them
very slight. Often they will go miles round to
get to some gentleman's seat or haU where
provisions are known to be distributed. I have
heard boys not twelve years of age tell every
union between London and Newcastle. The
minority of them seldom go farther than there ;
some will go on to Edinburgh, but not many.
They would know what kind of treatment and
provision would be obtained at each union, and
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
M^i
what form of application was necessary in
order to gain admittance. Very many of tliem
will go from London, first into Essex (the
unions are good there, and the stages not
long) ; then perhi^g through Suffolk, keeping
tolerably near the coast, because the shipping
is attractive to most boys of their age ; thence
they will proceed, by long or short stages,
according to the distance of the unions,
through Lincolnshire and Yorkshire. Few
of the vagrants miss Leeds, there being a
Mendicity Asylum in the town, where a good
night's lodging is given to them, and threepence
or foorpence, and in some cases sixpence (ac-
cording to the apparent worthiness of the
Applicant) ifi bestowed upon each. I believe
the habitual vagrants will go three or four
stages out of the direct road to make Leeds in
their way. From here they will go in different
directions towards Durham and Northumber-
land, or, perhaps, to Manchester, where there
is a society of the same kind as at Leeds, sup-
ported by the Quakers, where similar relief is
afforded. At Northumberland, the body of
vagrants generally torn back and begin to steer
southwards. Some, indeed, will go as fur as
Berwick; but as the relief afforded in Scot-
land is not obtained so readily as in England,
they seldom, as I have said, proceed northward
beyond that point The Scotch are * too far
north • for the regular English tramps. It is
true they sometimes give them a little barley-
cake, but, from all I have heard, the vagrants
fai'e very poorly beyond Berwick. From
Northumberland, they turn off towards Cum-
berland, Westmoreland, and Lancashire; and
then many will go off through Cheshire into
North Wales, and thence come round again
into Shropshire. Others will wander through
Staffordshire and Derbyshire, but most of
them centre in Birmingham ; thatisafavourite
meeting-place for the young vagrants. Hero
they make a point of tearing up their clothes,
because tor this offence they are committed to
Warwick gaol for a month, and have a shilling
on being discharged from the prison. It is
not the diet of Warwick gaol that induces them
to do this, but the shilling. Frequently they
tear up their clothes in order to get a fresh
supply. You see, sir, from continuaUy sleeping
in their clothes, and never washing Uieir
bodies, or changing their shirts — even if they
liave such things to change— they get to
swarm witli vermin, to such an extent that
they cannot bear them upon their bodies. Oh !
I have seen such sights sometimes — such
sights as any decent, cleanly person would not
credit. I have seen the lice on their clothes
in the sunshine, as thick as blight on the
leaves of trees. When their garments, from
this cause, get very uncomfortable to them,
they will tear them up, for the purpose of
forcing the parish officers to give them some
fresh ones. From Birmingham they will come
up, generally through Northampton and Hert-
ford, to London ; for by this time either the
refuges will be about opening, or the lads will
have been forgotten at the unions in and
around the metropolis. They say that Lon-
don is fresh to them, when, owing either to
long absence, or some alteration in their ap-
pearance, they are looked upon as strangers
by the masters or porters of the workhouses.
London, on the other hand, they say, is dead
to them, when they have become too well
known at such places. Some will make only
a short torn out of London, going across the
country through Sussex, Hampshire, or Wilt-
shire. Hampshire they are attracted to in
large numbers, in consequence of the charity
distributed at Winchester." [It will be seen
by the table above given, that Southampton
stands very high among the places upon the
vagrant list.] " In these parts the vagrants
keep crossing the coimtry to various * relief,*
as they call it, and so manage to spin out nearly
two months in the autumn. The vagrants
mostly go down with the fashionables to the
sea-side in the latter part of the year — the
practised beggars in particular. In the spring
they generally make for the north of England.
I believe there are more beggars and tramps
in Durham, Lincolnshire, and Yorkshire, than
in half of the other parts of England put
together." " Begging is more
profitable there than in any other quarter of
the kingdom. A man may pick up more pro-
visions in the day-time in those counties Uian
anywhere else. The farmers are more liberal
in those parts, which are great places for pud-
ding, pies, and cakes ; and of these the young
tramps are remarkably fond. Round about
these parts the tramps pass the summer.
If the weather is fine and mild, they profer
* skippering it,' that is, sleeping in an outhouse
or hay-field, to going to a union. They have
no trouble in getting * scran,' or provisions
there, and Uiey object to the work connected
with the casual wards. In the autumn, they
are mostly in Sussex or Kent ; for they like
the hop-picking. It is not hard work, and
there are a great many loose girls to be found
there. I believe many a boy and man goes
hop-picking who never does anything else
during the year but beg. The female tramps
mostly go down to Kent to pick up their
'young chaps,' as they call them ; and with
them Uiey travel through the country as long
as they can agree, or until either party meets
with some one they are better pleased with,
and then they leave the other, or bury them,
as they term it.
" The Irish vagrants are mostly to be
found on the roads from Liv^ool or from
Bristol to London. I should think that at the
end of June the roads must be literally covered
with the Irish families tramping to London.
They come over in boatsful, without a penny
in their pockets, to get a little work during the
harvesting and hop-picking. Such of them as
make up Uieir minds to return to their country
after the autumn, contrive, by some means, to
Ma
lOVhOS LABOVB ASD TBE tOSJfOlS rOOM,
Jr<*r. r'* V/ tiwt •-zf^ve of F*r2b7 tor tA*sr
j V^;;^^/. *i^*:n yh.*if» Xtjr; ux^h vj^Xiffj. TLtj
vfj// u t/i^nr k/irf)k«r, auM k« hU:^m id tn^Ahfft
pl^>«, fr/r fear h^ itbMiJd Iia Mstrth^^ or ro&bibd
«t U<« tmiaI v«r4*. l'L« Ifuh fer« tl'a^x
ytfrj ft\\hj tA diMrAMrd. TfMrr lire npr/Q 2iul«
i>r ri'/tijin^, ^A ujyyn i4»* w'>ni kio J of pr>.
▼t«i/>n U«ja e«a Iia ly/aj|fht, «t«& thoq;rh it be
n*A fix Vff liaiAwi ii/A. Tb^^ vill ^ anj-
thinif. Tl*« iriiifa tmupliT«!ik ivj1«1v \rj btggiog.
Jt |j«4 'yfUffi ^tCUmvAthA in*T, »ir, t>i«t th«n; are
wrArcI/ ftA/ W*:hh trairipii. I f'-Qf»f»OK this
t:tmtf.% ff'/m th* indoAtry r/f th« p'^'plc The
Kni^mh trunp liv«« hy \f»tn^mtt aod ttMling,
«— I thiijk, UifAtlj hj huiuin^; a thorough
inunp fi;*iU niorn that wa)r than th<; other. If
h^ ^*/»:% Uj thti \,tM'd0fisr *A a house on the
nrtrU:ut» of htrtff^ng, and sees aoy IsDen, or
bnjiihc'Sf or kh'jes, or, indeed, even a hit of
nttMn, ho will t^ off with it, and Bell it, TDOstly
U» uu: VtmyHzf tit some low lodgin^'-hoose where
he msy put up fr^r the uighL They seldom
r/^njinit highway rr/bU-ries, and arc generally
tlio v<;ry IfiweHt and meanest of thieves. No
one ran imagine, but thone who hare gone
through it, the horror of a casual ward of a
union; what with the fllth, the vermin, the
stifuch, tlie heat, and the noise of the place, it
is intokruble. The usual conversation is upon
the Si I ventures of the day. One recounts how
he htolu til is thing, and another that. Some
tell wliat i>olico are stationed in Uie difEerent
towns; othent, what places to go to either
to Um, rob, or sleep ; and others, what places
to Iniware of. I have muMcd seven years of
my life in this way, and I have been so used
to tramping about, tliatwlien the spring comes
n)und 1 muHt be on Uje move. In the winter
Uiore is more food to be pieko<l up in London
than in the country, and the beggars seldom
foil to make a grxxl thing of it in the cold
weather. I have met with beggars in Car.
nurvon who had come all the way from London
for the express puq)oso of begging from the
visitors to the Snowdon mountains. There
are very few houses round about, but a good
deal is picked up from the company coming to
the hotels."
I shall now conclude thiti account of the
numbers, cost, and character of the country
and tlio metropolis, with the narratives of two
fumiklo tramps.
The first — a young woman 30 years of age
—gave me the following statement. Her face
was what the vulgar would call ** good-looking,"
as her cheeks wore full and deep-coloured, and
h««r eyes tolerably bright^ and lier tooth goml.
She was very stout, too. Her dress was
t<»lenibly cloftn and good, but sat cU)so about
&V. as d fijt zjA so rBder-cSochziie. She
""I 1^ a zjoj^ <A ^ wbes« my father
w«s a w9:iiWE.&»r. I wis aa ccly child. I
CK. I r»Bi«s.b€r -c^ coeh^r. she died when I
«u 10 7'C&£. My fssh^ daed morv than f'>!2r
'}VB% %£•*. It4 beard as ia:Kh sinee I left
, b'jc&e. 'l WW i«£t %t-j the Naoinal Scfao(^ I
em md. bn eaal w7ii«. My £sther went to
I work 9CL Weili&gKA, in Somersetshire, taking
rme widi him, whm I was qoiie a liale
gzrL He was a sood fisther and very kind,
and we had f^eitty to eat. I think of him
, sometiELes : it nafces me sorrowfaL He
- would have been sadly distressed if he had
I seen me in this auie. My father married
again when I was 12, 1 mppose. He married
a faetory.woman. She was about 30. She
waan't irood to bw. She led me a dreadful
life, always telliDg my lather stories of me,—
that I was away when I waml, and he grumbltKi
at me. He never beat me, bat my stepmother
often beat me. She vaa raiy bad-tempered,
and I am veiy bad-tempered, too—very pas-
sionate; bat if I*m well traated my passion
doesnX come oat She beat me with anything
that came first to hand, aa the hearth-bmsh,
and she flang things at me. She disliked me,
beeaose she knew I hated mj fluher marrying
again. I was very happy before that, living
with my lather. I oootd eook dinner for him,
young as I was, make his bed, and do all those
sort of things, all bat his washing. I had a
bed to myBelt My litfher was a good man.
He came home drank aometimea, but not
often. It never made any di£Eerence in him,
he was always kind. He seemed comfortable
with my stepmother, bat I wasn't I used
to tell my llsther how she used me, but he
said it was nonsense. This went on till I was
lj>, when J ran away. Fm aore I had been a
good girl till then. I never slept oat cIL my
lather's house np to that time, and didn't ke«p
company with any young men. I oould stand
my stepmother's treatment no longer. If she
had beien kind I wouldn't have run away. I
was almost as big then as I am now. I had
44. or 5«. with me, I don't remember just how
much, I started in anch a passion ; but it was
money I had saved up flrom what my father
had ^ven me. I took no dothea with me bat
what I had on. I was tidily dressed. It was
in the haymaking time, and I made straight
away to London. I was so yoimg and in such
a rage, I couldn't think of notUng but getting
away. When I cooled I began to think of my
father, but at homo I had heard of young girls
being sent out to Australia and having done
well, and I thought I could eadly get sent out
from London, and so I went on. I slept in
lodging-bouses. I was shocked the first night
I got into Bridgewater, men, women, sad
boys, all sleeping in the same room. I slept
with onotheryoung woman, a travelling- woman,
but married. I couldn't think of going back.
I couldn't humble myself before that step-
m^n' ■' -g..
VAGBANTS IN THE CASUAL WARD OF \YOKKHOUSE,
[/YoM a Skdck.]
4
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
403
mother. I thought anything would be bolter
than that. I couldn't sleep at all the first night
I was out. I never was in such a bod before.
A young man who saw me there wanted me
to Uvo with him ; he was a beggar, and I didn't
like a beggar, and I wouldn't have nothing
to say to him. He wasn't impudent ; but he
followed me to Bristol, all the time, whenever
I met with him, teasing me to live with him.
1 lived on my money as long as I oould, and
then had to go and sleep in a union. I don't
know wht're. It was a dreadful place. The
rats iim over my head while I slept; and I
prayed for daylight — for I used to pray then.
I don't now. I don't like the thoughts of it.
At last I got to London. I was sitting in
Hyde-park thinking where I should go — I
know it was in Hyde-park, for I was taken up
from it since. The park-keeper took me up for
making a noise — that's a disturbance — in the
park ; me and some other young women : we
\*vn} only washing ourselves where the horses
drink, near the canteen. In Hyde-park, while
1 was sitting, as I've told you, some girls and
some young men, and some older men, passed
mc, canning rakes. I was sitting with three
other girls I'd got acquainted with on the road,
all Irish girlR. The people that passed mo
said, * Wo are goiu^ half-way to Watford a-
haymaking. Go with us?' We all went.
lOach of those Irish girls soon took up with a
mate. I think they had known each other
before. I had a fortnight at haymaking. I
had a mate at haymaking, and in a few days he
ruined me. He told the master that I belonged
to him. He didn't say I was his wife. They
don't call us their wives. I continued with
him a long time, living with him as his wife.
We next went into Kent harvesting, then a-
hopping, and I've been every summer since.
He was kind to me, but we were both pas-
tiionatc — fire against fire — and we fought
sometimes. He never beat me but once, for
contradicting him. He wasn't jealous, and
lie had no reason to be so. I don't know that
he was fond of me, or he wouldn't have run
away. I liked him, and would have gone
through trouble for him. I like him still. Wo
n<^ver talked about marrying. I didn't care,
for I didn't think about it. I lived with him,
and was true to him, until he ran away in hay-
making time in 1848. He ran away fi^m me
in Kent, where we were hopping. We hadnt
(|uarrelled for some days before he started. I
didn't think he was going, for he was kind to
me just before. I left him once for a fort-
night myself, through some quarrel, but he
got me back again. I came up to London in
a boat from Gravesend, with other hoppers. I
lived on fifteen shillings i had saved up. I
lived on that as long as it lasted — ^more than a
week. I lodged near the Dials, and used to
go drinking with other women I met with
there, as I was fond of diink then. I don't
like it so much now. We drank gin and beer.
I kept to myself until my money was gone,
and then I looked ont for myself. I had no
particular friends. The women I drank with
were some bad and some good. I got ac-
quainted with a young girl as I whs walking
along the Strand looking out for my living l^
prostitution — I couldn't star\'e. We walked
together. We couldn't stay in the Strand,
where the girls were well-dressed, and so wo
kept about the Dials. I didn't think much
about the life I was leading, because I got
hardened. I didnt like it, though. Still I
thought I should never like to go home. I
lodffed in a back-street near the Dials. I
couldn't take anybody there. I didn't do well.
I often wanted money to pay my lodgings, and
food to eat, and had often to stay out all night
perishing. Many a night out in the streets
I never got a farthing, and had to walk about
all day because I durstn't go back to my room
without money. 1 never had a fancy man.
There was all sorts in the lodging-house—
thirty of them — ^pickpockets, and beggars, and
cadgers, and fuicy men, and some that wanted
to be fancy men, but I never saw one that I
liked. I never picked pockets as other girls
did ; I was not nimble enough with my hands.
Sometimes I had a sovereign in my pocket,
but it was never there a day. I used to go
out a^drinking, treating other women, and they
would treat me. We helped one another now
and then. X was badly off for clothes. I had
no illness except colds. The common fellows
in the streets were always jeering at me.
Sometimes missionaries, I think thejr're called,
talked to me about the life I was leading, but
I told them, * You mind yourself, and I'll mind
myself. What is it to you where I go when I
die ? ' I don't steal anything. I swear some-
times now. When I was at home and good, I
was shocked to hear such a thing. Me and
the other girls used to think it clever to swear
hard, and say bad words one to another or to
anybody — we're not particolar. Ifl went into
the Magdalen, I know I couldn't stay there. I
have not been there, but I know I couldn't,
from what I've heard of it from the other
girls, some of whom said they'd been ; and I
suppose they had, as there was no motive at all
for them to tell lies about it I have been in
the casual wards at Holbom and Kensington
when I was beat out. It was better than walk-
ing the streets. I think, by the life I lead-*
and without help I must lead it still, or starve
— I sometimes get twenty shillings a- week,
sometimes not more than five shillings. I
would like best to go to Australia, where no-
body would know me. I'm sure I oould be-
have myself there. There's no hope for me
here : everybody that knows me despises me.
I could take a service in Sydney. I could get
rid of my swearing. I only swear now when
I'm vexed — ^it comes out natural-like then. I
could set rid of my love of drink. No one-
no girl can carry on the life I do ¥rithout
drink. No girl's feelings would let her. I
never met one but what said so, and I know
404
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
they all told the truth in that. I am strong
and healthy, and could take a hard place with
country work. That about Australia is the
best wish I have. I'm sure I'm sick of. this
life. It has only drink and excitement to
recommend it. I haven't a friend in the
world. I have been told I was a fool not to
pick pockets like other girls. I never begged
but once, and that was as I was coming to
London, and a woman said, ' You look better
than I do!* so I never begged again — that
checked me at once. But I've got tickets for
the * straw-yards,' or the • leather-houses,' as
some call them (asylums for the houseless).
The old women all say it was far better when
they were yoimg. I think what a change it is
from my country life ; but when I get sad, I
go and get a glass of gin, if I have the money.
I can get a pennyworth in some houses. I
can't do much at my needle. The idleness of
the life I lead is terrible. There is nothing to
interest me.**
The next was a mere girl, who bad lost all
traces of feminine beauty. There was on im-
pudence in her expression that was utterly
repulsive ; and even in her most serious mo-
ments it was evident that she had the greatest
difficulty to restrain her inward levity. Her
dress consisted principally of a ragged red and
green plaid shawl, pinned tight over her neck,
and a torn straw.bonnet, worn back upon her
head.
** I have a father alive," she said ; '* I have
got no mother. I have been away these three
years. I came away with a chap. I was
living, sir, when I was at home, with my father
in Maidstone. My father was a gardener,
and I used to work at shirt-making when I was
at home with my father. My mother has been
dead eight years, I think. I can't say how old
I was Sien. I am twenty now. ^Iy father,
after my mother's death, married again. She
was dead seven years before ho got another
wife. He didn't marry again while I was at
home. My mother was a very good mother.
I was veiy fond of my mother, for she was a
very good mother ; but not of my father, for
he was a bad father. Why, sir, he used to
treat us three girls so ill, my biggest sister
was obliged to go to Australia from him. My
next sister was younger than me, ond I don't
know whether she is at home now ; but I don't
believe that she can stop at home, because I
have been down as far as Maidstone since I
went away with my young man, and I've heard
that she's almost dead between the pair of
them. By the pair of them, I mean my father
and stepmother. My mother-in-law is the
worst to my sister. My father was bad before
she came ; he was such a drimkord. We went
to school, where we paid nothing a-week, in
Maidstone; it's a free school. I can read.
I can't write. All the money my father used
to earn he used to drink, and leave us without
any food. I went to the shirt-making when I
was twelve years of age, and that used to
bring me about ^. a-day, and with that I used
to buy bread, for we never got a halfpenny
firom my father to keep us. My father used to
work for a gentleman, and got pretty good
wages. The yoimg chap that I first took up
with was a carpenter. He was apprenticed to
the trade. He enticed mo away. He told me
if I'd come to London with him he'd do any-
thing for me. I used to tell him how badly my
father tieated me, and he used to tell me not
to stop at home. I have been knocking about
three years, and I'm twenty now, so I leave
you to say how old I was then. No, I can't
say. I'm twenty now, and I've been away
these three years, and I don't know how old
that would make me. I never learnt any
ciphering. My father used to beat us and
knock us about when he came home drunk. I
liked the young man that came a-courting on
me very well. I thought all he said was true,
and I thought he would make me much hap-
pier than I was at home.** [Here she shook
her head with apparent regret.] " Yes, sir, he
promised he would marry me; but when I
came over to London he ruined me, and then
ran away and left me. I knew it was wrong to
go away and live with him without b^g
married ; but I was wretched at home, and he
told me he would make me his wife, and I
believed him. He brought me up to London
with him, into the Borough. He took me to
a low lodging-house there. The charge was
6</. a-night for the two of us. There were six
sleeping in the same room beside as two.
They were men and women. Some of 'em
were married, and some were not. He had
4t», 6d. when he came up to London with me,
and I had none. He stopped with me. He
stopped with me in the same house a week.
He was 22 years of age, or 23, I can't say
which. ^Vhile he was with mo he was very
kind to me : oh, yes, sir, much kinder than my
father, and I loved him a great deal more, Tm
sure. I hadn't many clothes when I left my
father's home. I had nothing but what I
stood upright in. I had no more clothes when
I was at home. When my young man left me
there was another yoimg girl in the same
lodging-house, who advised me to turn ont
upon ihe streets. I went and took her advice.
I did like the life for a bit, because I see'd
there was money getting by it. Sometimes I
got 4s. or 5«. a-day, and sometimes more than
that. I still kept at the same house. There
were a lot of girls like me at the same place.
It was not a bad house, but they encouraged
us like. No tramps used to come there, only
young chaps and gals that used to go out
thieving. No, my young man didnt thieve,
not while he was with me, but I did after-
wards. I've seen young chaps brought in
there by the girls merely to pay their lodging-
money. The landlady told us to do that ; she
said I could do better than knocking about
with a man. If I hadn't had enough to pay
for my lodging^, I couldn't have hod a bed to
LOXDOS LABOVlt AND THE LONDON POOR,
405
lie on. We used to be all in the same room,
chaps and girls, sometimes nine or ten couples
in the same room — only little bits of girls and
chi^. I have seen girls there Vi years of
age. The boys was about 15 or 16. They
used to swear dreadfuL I fell out with the
gal as first told me to go on the streets, and
then I got with another at another house.
I moved to Paddington. I lived at a little
public-house there — a bad house ; and I
used to go out shoplifting with my pal. 1
used to taJce everything I could lay my hands
on. We went one night, and I stole two
dresses, at a linendfai>er'8 shop, and had two
months a^piece for it. Yes, sir, I liked prison
very well, because I had such bad clothes ; and
was glad to be out of the way. Some days we
hardly had a bit to put in our mouths. Some-
times we used to get nothing shopUfting ; the
men, perhaps, would notice— ^he fly-men, as we
called them. They used to be too wide-awake
for us. Sometimes we used to make 5j. in the
day ; but then we used to spend it all in waste
— why, spending it in anything. We'd buy
fish, and meat, and baked potatoes, and pud-
ding. No, sir, very little drink we had. We
didn't care for gin, nor any liquor at all. There
was none among us but one that cared for
drink, and she used to pawn all her clothes for
it I dare say there was upwards of twelve or
thirteen gals ; the kitchen used to bo full. The
mistress used to treat us well if we paid her ;
but she used to holler at us if we didn't. The
chaps used to ser\'e her out so. They used to
take the sheets, and blankets, and everything
away from her. She was deaf. They was
mostly all prigs that used to come to see us.
They used to go out nailing — Uiat's thieving.
There was one that they used to call
Fogerty was transported: another got seven
months ; and another got a twelvemonth. I
had one fancy-man. He was a shoplifter and
a pickpocket : he has got two years now. . I
went to see him once in quod ; some calls it
* the Steel.' I cried a good deal when he got
nailed, sir : I loved him. A little time after he
went away, I went down into the country;
down into Essex. I saw 1 couldn't get him
off, 'cause it was for a watch, and the gen-
tleman went so hard against him. I was
with him at the time he stole it, but I
didn't know he'd got it till I saw him run.
I got the man down by a saw-mill ; he was
tipsy. He was a gentleman, and said he
woi^d give me five shillings if I would come
along with him. My fancy-man always kept
near to me whenever I went out of a night 1
usen't to go out to take the men home ; it was
only to pick them up. My young man used
to tell me how to rob the men. I'd get them
up in a comer, and then I used to take out
of their pockets whatever I could lay my hands
on ; and then I used to hand it over to him,
and he used to take the things homo and
•fence' them. We used to do a good deal
this way sometimes: often we'd get enough
to keep us two or three days. At last he got
caught for the watch; and when 1 seo'd I
couldn't get him oflf, I went down into the
country-— down into Essex, sir. I travelled all
parts, and slept at the unions on the road. I
met a young girl down in Town Mailing, in
Kent I met her, and then we used to go
begging together, and tramp it firom one union
to another. At last we got so ragged and
dirty, and our things all got so bad, that we
made up our minds to go in for three months
into prison, at Battle, down in Sussex. We
used to meet a great many on the road boil-
ing their kettle, and sometimes we used to
stop and skipper with them of a night Skip-
pering is sleeping in bams or under hedges,
if it's warm weather. They weren't gipsies.
We usen't to stop to speak to the gipsies — ^not
much — unless we went to fairs or horse-races.
Then we used to sit with them for a little
while, if they had their tent We generally
used to steal on the way. If we could see
anything, we used to take it. At last, when
our clothes got bad, I and the other girl — she
still kept with me---determined to break the
parson's windows at Battle. We broke one
because the house was good for a cant — that's
some food — bread or meat, and tliey wouldn't
give it us, so we got savage, and broke all the
glass in the windows. For that we got three
months. After we got out, the parson sent
word for us to come to his house, and he gave
us half-a-crown a-piece to take us on our road.
He would have given us some clothes — we had
no shoes and stockings : we was very bad off;
but his wife was in London. So we went on
the road tramping again, and I have been
tramping it about the country ever since. I
was all last winter in Town Mailing union
with the fever, and when I got well I set off
tramping again. I didn't have no more chaps
since 1 left my foncy-man — I mean, I never
took up with no others, not to keep their
company. I have been about two years
tramping altogether; out of that I had five
months in prison for stealing and breaking
windows. I like the tramping life well enough
in the summer, 'cause there's plenty of victuals
to be had then, but it's the winter tliat we can't
stand. Then we generally come to London,
but we can't call at house to house here as we
do in the country, so we make but a i)oor
thing of it I never was so bad off as I am
now, excepting when I was at Battle, for I had
no shoes or stockings then. The police is too
sharp for us in London. I'm very fond of
going through the country in fine weather.
Sometimes we don't make much freedom with
the chaps in the union, and sometimes we do.
They tells us to go along with them, for they
knows good houses to call at What you make
is all according to whether you're in a lone-
some road. I've travelled a day, and not seen
a house that I could get anything at Some
days I've got ashiUmg given to me, and some
days as much as half-a-crown. We can always
400
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON FOOB.
get plenty of bread and meat, for cotintryfolks
is very good. If I had some good things-^
that is, good boots— I should Uke to go into
the country again. Sometimes we gets so much
scran we sells it among ourselves. I should sell
my lot to some travellers on the road. They gives
us 3d. or 4i/., but we must give them a good
lot for that. I can't say which is the best of
the unions now, for they are all shut up.
They used to be good at one time, but the
Irish ruined them ; they came in such swarms,
the people, I knew, would never stand it. We
used often to say of a night that them Irish
Greeks would iiiin the business. They are
much better beggars than we are, though they
don't get as much as the English, because
they go in such swarms up to the door. Now,
down in Hawkhurst, there used to be a two-
penny loaf allowed to everybody that called at
the parson's house, little and big; it was
allowed by a lady, till the pigs of liiah ckme
in such lots, that they spoilt all the game.
The parson won't give it to no one now, except
eight travelling-men in the morning. I know
all the good houses, and the tidy grubbikens,
— that's the unions where there's little or
nothing to do for the food we gets. We walk
mostly eleven miles a-day. If it's hot we
walk only six miles, and turn in under a hedge
if we've got our things with as to make a tent.
We go all right round the country, np to
Yorkshire, and as far as Northumberlaiid. We
dont try Warwick gaol, because the shilling
they used to give on being discharged is
stopped, excepting to those that's not been
there before, and there's very few of the
trampers, boys or girls, that hasn't. Then
there's the twopenny-houae down in High-
field, in Kant. I'm Uowed if they aln*t been
and stopped that ! I oaii*t tell what's oome to
the country of late. It's got very bad and
scaly, there's no hospitality going on. I've
been two years at the ouainaBs, and I've seen
it grow worse and worse, meaaer and meaner,
every day before my very eyes. I dont know,
I'm sure, what poor trampers will do if it gets
any worse. S<nne do talk of the good old
times, when there was plenty of money- getting
in them daya. I shouldn't like to give it up
just yet. I do like to be in the eonntry in
the summer-time. I like haymaking and
hopping, because that's a good bit of ftin.
StUl, I'm sick and tired of what I'm doing
now. It's the winter that sickens me. I'm
worn out now, and I often site and thinks of
the life that Fve led. I think of my land,
dear mother, and how good X would have
been if my father had taught me beUer. Still,
if I'd clothes I'd not give up my present lift.
I'd be down in the counUy now. I do love
roving about, and I'm wretched when I'm not
at it. After my mother died I never liked to
be at home. I've seen many an unhappy day
since I've been aw^y; BtiU, I wouldn't go
back to my home, because it^s no home to
me."
London Vaorants' Astlums fob tbb
houbblbbs.
To give the reader an idea of the Hiotky
assemblage to be found in these plaees, I sub-
join the following table (taken nora the Be-
port), by which it will be seen that almoit
every quarter of the globe oontribotes its qoota
of wretchedness .•-^
PLACES TO WHICH THE INDIVIDUALS SHELTERED BY THE HOUSELESS
POOR SOCIETY DURING THE WINTER 1848-49 APPEARED
TO BEI^NG.
AfHca .
la
Hampshire .
. 414
Russia .
7
America
78
Herefordshire
. 40
Rutlandshire
. . 24
Bedfordshire.
65
Hertfordshire
. 181
Scotland
. . 2W
Berkshire .
. 207
Huntingdonshire .
25
Shropshire .
. 48
"Rq^^lfingbftmftbirp .
88
Ireland
8068
Somersetahire
, 246
Cambridgeshire
. 88
Italy . . .
7
Spain .
. 10
Cheshire
40
Jersey .
16
St. Helena .
. 8
Cornwall
32
Kent .
. 523
Staffordshire
. 199
Cumberland .
la
Lancashire .
811
Suffolk .
. 138
Derbyshire .
48
Leicestershire
75
Surrey .
. 204
Denmark
C
Lincolnshire .
85
Sussex .
, 147
Devonshire .
209
London
343
Wales .
. 122
Dorsetshire .
40
Mildlesex .
214
Warwickshire
. 180
Durham
04
Norfolk
103
West Indies .
. 2ft
East Indies .
19
Northamptonshire
67
Westmoreland
. 6
Essex .
392
Northumberland .
72
W^iltshire
. 87
France .
14
Nottinghamshiro .
08
Worcestershire
. 88
Germany
58
Oxfordshire .
100
Yorkshire .
. 128
Gibraltar
3
Poland .
4
Unknown
. 29
Gloucestershutj .
103
Portugal
5
Bom at sea .
6
Guernsey
32
LONDON LABOUR AND TBM LONDON POOB.
ior
These places of shelter for the houseless are
only open at certain periods of the year ; and
at this season a large proportion of the coun-
try labourers who are out of employ flock to
London, either to seek for work in the winter-
time, or to avail themselves of the food and
lodging afforded by these charitable institu-
tions. Others, again, who are professional
vagrants, tramping through the country, and
sleeping at the diflerent unions on their road,
come to town as regularly as noblemen eveiy
winter, and make their appearance annually
in these quarters. Moreover, it is at this
season of the year that the sufferings and
privations of the really poor and destitute are
rendered tenfold more severe than at any
other period ; and it is at the houses of refuge
that the great mass of London, or rather
English and Irish, poverty and misery, is to
be met with.
The congregation at the Refuges for the
Destitute is, mdeed, a sort of ragged con-
gress of nations — a convocation of squalor and
misciy — a synopsis of destitution, degrada-
tion, and suffering, to be seen, perhaps, no-
where else.
Nor are the returns of the bodily ailments
of the wretched inmates of these abodes less
instructive as to their miserable modes of
life, their continual exposure to the weather,
and their want of proper nutriment. The
subjoined medical report of the diseases and
bodily afflictions to which these poor crea-
tures are liable, tells a tale of suffering which,
to persons with even the smallest amount of
paUiological knowledge, must need no com-
ment. The catarrh and influenza, the rheu-
matism, bronchitis, ague, asthma, lumbago —
all speak of many long night's exposure to the
wet and cold ; whereas the abscesses, ulcers,
the diorrhuBa, and the excessive debility from
starvation, tell, in a manner that precludes all
doubt, of the want of proper sustenance and
extreme privation of these, the very poorest of
all the poor.
Medical Report for 1848-49. Of the ptrtotu
who applied at ths general asylnm, there
were afflicted with —
Catarrh and influenza .... 149
Incipient fever 52
Bheumadsm 50
Atrophy 3
Dropsy 3
Incised wounds 3
Diarrhcea GO
Cholera 2
Bronchitis 13
Abscess 15
Ulcers 11
Affections of the head . .12
Ague 13
Excessive debility from starvation . 17
Inflammation of lungs .... 2
Asthma . .... 10
Epilepsy 4
Diseased joints ..... 4
Eiysipelas 3
Rupture 5
Cramps and pains in bowels ... a
Spitting of blood 4
Lumbago l
Rheumatic ophthalmia .... 2
Strumous disease 2
Sprains 1
Fractures 4
Pregnant 30
The returns of the dififorent callings of the
individuals seeking for the shelter of the
refdges are equally curious and worthy of
study. These, however, I shall reserve for my
next letter, as, by comparing the returns for
each year since the opening of the institution,
now thirty years ago, we shall be enabled to
arrive at almost an historical account of the
distress of the different trades since the year
1820. These tables I am now preparing from
the valuable yearly reports of the Society, one
of the most deserving among all our charitable
institutions, and one which, especially at this
bitter season, calls for the support of all those
who would give a meal and a bed to such as
are too poor to have either,
I will now proceed to a description of the
Refuge itself.
The only refuge for the hQuselesa now open
which is reallv a home for the homeless, is
that in Pli^house-yard, Cripplegate. The
doors open into a narrow by -street, and the
neighbourhood needs no other announcement
that the establishment is open for the reception
of the houseless, than the assembly of a crowd
of Tagged shivering people, certain to be seen
on the night of opening, as if they knew by
instinct where they might be housed under a
w^rm and comfortable roof. The crowd
gathers in Playhouse-yard, and many among
Uiem look sad and weary enough. Many of
the women carry infants at the breast, and
have children by their sides holding by their
gowns. The cries of these, and the wrangling
of the hungry crowds for their places, is indeed
disheartening to hear. The only sounds of
merriment come from the errand-boys, as
they call themselves, whom even starvation
cannot make sorrowfril for two hours together.
The little struggle that there usually is among
the applicants is not for a rush when the doors
are opened, but for what they call the *' frxmt
rank." They are made to stand clear of the
footpath ; and when five o'clock — the hour of
admission — comes, an officer of the Refrige
steps out, and quietly, by a motion of his
hand, or a touch on the shoulder, sends in
about 150 men and boys, and about 50 women
and girls. He knows the great majority of
those who have tickets which entitle them to
one or two nights' further lodging (the tickets
are generally for three nights), and these are
commonly in the foremost rank. The number
iOH
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
thus admitted show themselves more or less
at home. Some are quiet and abashed ; but
gome proceed briskly, and in a business-like
way, to the first process, to wash themselves.
This is done in two large vessels, in what
may be called the hall or vestibule of tlie
building. A man keeps pumping fresh water
into the vessels as fast as that used is drained
off, and soap and clean towels are supplied
when thought necessary; the clean towels,
which are long, and attached to rollers, soon
becoming, in truth, exceedingly dirty. I
noticed some little contention — whether to
show an anxiety to conform to the rules of
the Refuge, or to hurry through a disagree-
able but inevitable task, or really for the
comfort of ablution, I will not pretend to
determine — but there was some little con-
tention for the first turn among the young
men at the washing. To look down upon
them from thn main staircase, as I did, was
to survey a veiy motley scene. There they
were — the shirtless, the shoeless, tlie coatless,
the unshaven, the uncouth, ay, and the decent
and respectable. There were men from every
part of the United Kingdom, with a coloured
man or two, a few seamen, navigators, agri-
cultural labourers, and artizans. There were
no foreigners on the nights tliat I was there ;
and in the returns of those admitted there
will not be found one Jew. It is possible that
Jews may be entered under the heads of " Ger-
mans " or ** Poles " — I mean, foreign Jews ;
but on my visits I did not see so much as any
near approach to the Hebrew physiognomy.
To attempt to give an account of any-
thing like a prevailing garb among these
men is impossible, unless I described it as
rags. As they were washing, or waiting for
a wash, there was some stir, and a loud buzz
of talk, in which " the brogue " strongly pre-
dominated. There was some little fun, too,
as there must be where a crowd of many
youths is assembled. One in a ragged, coarse,
striped shirt, exclaimed as he shoved along,
" By your leave, gentlemen ! " with a significant
emphasis of his " gentlemen." AnotJier man
said to his neighbour, " Tho bread's fine, Joe ;
but tlio sleep, isn't that plummy ? " Some few,
I say, seemed merry enough, but that is easily
accounted for. Their present object was at-
tained, and your real professional vagabond is
always happy by that — for a forgetfulness of
the past, or an indificrenoe to it, and a reck-
lessness as to the future, are the primary
elements of a vagrant's enjoyment. Those who
had tickets were of course subjected to no fur-
ther examination, unless by the surgeon sub-
sequently; but all the new candidates for
admission — and tlie officers kept admitting
fri'sh batches as they were instructed — were
not passed before a rigid examination, when
a ticket for three nights was given to each
fresh applicant On the right hand, as
you enter the building, is the office. The
assistant-superintendant sits before a large
ledger, in which he enters every najne and
description. His questions to every fresh
candidate are: — "Your name?** **How old
are you?" "What trade?" "How do you
live (if no trade)?" "Where did you sleep
last night ? '* " 'lo what parish do you b^
long ? ** In order to answer these questions,
each fresh applicant for admission stands before
the door of Uie office, a portion of the upper
dirision of the door being thrown open.
Whilst I was present, there was among a
portion of the male applicants but little hesi-
tation in answering the inquiries glibly and
promptly. Others answered reluctantly. The
answers of some of the boys, especially the
Irish boys, were curious. "Whtxe did you
sleep last night ? " " Well, then, sir, I sleep
walking about the streets all night, and veiy
cowld it was, sir." Another lad was asked,
after he had stated his name and age, how
he lived ? "I beg, or do anything,** he an-
swered. "What's yoiur parish ? " •* Ireland."
(Several pronounced their parish to be the
" county Corruk.") " Have you a father h«re? "
"He died before we left Ireland." "How
did you get here, then ? " "I came with my
mother." "Well, and where*s she?" "She
died after we came to England." So the
child had the streets for a stepmother.
Some of the women were as glib and sys-
tematic in their answers as the men and
boys. Others were much abashed. Among
the glib-tongued women, there seemed no
shamefacedness. Some of the women ad-
mitted here, however, have acquitted them-
selves well when provided (through charitable
institutions) with situations. The absence of
shame which I have remarked upon is the
more notable, because these women wane ques-
tioned by men, with other men standing by.
Some of the women were good-looking; and
when asked how old they were, they answered
at once, and, judging by their appearance,
never understated their years. Many I should
have pronounced younger than they stated.
Vanity, even with silliness and prettiness, does
not seem to exist in their utter destitution.
All the regular inrocesses having beoi
observed (and the women have a place for
their ablutions after the same fashion as
the men), the applicants admitted enter
their several wards. The women's ward is
at the top of the building. It supplies se-
commodaUon, or berths, for 95 women in an
apartment 35 yards in length and Q in width.
At one comer of this long chamber, a few
steps lead down to what is cidled " the nursery,"
which has 80 berths. Most of these berths
may be described as double, and aie large
enough to accommodate a mother and her
children. The children, when I saw them,
were gambolling about in some of the berths
as merry as children elsewhere, or perhaps
merrier, for they were experiencing the un-
wonted luxuries of warmth and Ibod. Tho
matron can supply these women and their
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
409
children with gruel at her disoretiou ; and it
appeu^ to be freely given. Some who had
children seemed to be the best of all there in
point of physiognomy. They had not, gene-
rally, tho stolid, stnpid, indifferent, or shame-
less look of many of the other women ; it was
as though the motherly feeling had somewhat
humanized them. Some of the better sort of
women spoke so low as to be hardly audible.
Among them were, indeed, many decent-look-
ing females.
The men's wards are the Chapel Ward (for
the better sort of persons), containing 00
berths, one line being ranged 2 berths deep ;
the Lower Ward, containing 120 berths ; the
Boys' Ward, containing 60 berths; and the
Straw Loft, 40. There is a walk alongside the
berths in each ward. What is called Uie Boys'
Ward is not confined to boys : it used to be so,
but they were found so noisy that thoy
could no longer be allowed a separate apart-
ment. They are now scattered through the
several wards with the men, the officers ar-
ranging them, and varying the arrangements
as they consider best Before there can be
any retirement to rest, each man, woman, and
child must be examined by a surgeon. Whilst
I was present, a young assistant conducted
the investigation in a careful, yet kindly and
gentlemanly manner. Inde^, I was much
struck with the sympathy and gentleness he
displayed ; and it was evident from the respect
of the people, that kindness and consideration
are the very qualities to impress and control
the class he has to deal with. All afflicted
with cutaneous disorders (and there were but
five men so afflicted) were lodged apart from
the others. Bronchitis and rheumatism are
the prevalent disorders, occasioned by their
exposure to the weather, and their frequent
insufficiency of food. Ninety per cent of
them, I was told by Mr. Gay, the intelligent
surgeon of the establishment, might have
coughs at some periods, but of that they
thought nothing. Women advanced in preg-
nancy, and men with any serious (es|)ecially
any infectious) ailment, are not permitted to
sleep in the Befrige ; but the institution, ii
they have been admitted, finds them lodgings
elsewhere.
Each person admitted receives in the even-
ing^ half-a-ponnd of the best bread. Every
child has die same allowance. If a woman
be admitted with four children, she receives
two half-pounds of bread — a half-pound for
every one, no matter if one be at the breast, as
is not unfrequenUy the case. The same
quantity of bread is given in the mornings.
In the night that I was present, 430 were ad-
mitted, and consequently (including the even-
ing and morning allowances), 430 lbs. of
bread were disposed of. On Sundays, when
Divine Service is celebrated by a clergyman of
the Church of England, three half-pounds of
bread and three ounces of cheese are distri-
buted to each inmate, children and babies
included. I witnessed a number of young
men eating the bread administered to them.
They took it with a keen appetite; nothing
was heard among them but the champing of
the teeth, as they chewed large mouthfuls of
the food.
The berths, both in the men's and women's
wards, are on the grotmd, and divided one
fh>m another only by a wooden partition
about a foot high; a similar partition is at
the head and feet ; so that in idl the wards it
looks as if there were a series of coffins arranged
in long catacombs. This burial-like aspect is '
the more striking when the inmates are all
asleep, as they were, with the rarest excep-
tions, when I walked round at ten o'clock at
night Each sleeper has for covering a large
basQ (dressed sheep-skin), such as cobblers
use for aprons. As they lie in long rows, in
the most profound repose, with these dark
brown wrappers about them, they present the
uniform look and arrangement of a long line
of mummies. Each bed in the coffin, or
trough -like division, is made of waterproof
cloth, stuffed with hay, made so as to be
easily cleaned. It is soft and pleasant to the
touch. Formerly the beds were plain straw,
but the present plan has been in use for seven
years. In this Refhge only three men have
died since it was established, thirty years ago.
One fell dead at the sink-stone while washing
himself; the other two were found dead in
their berths during the prevalence of the
cholera.
Every part of the building was scrupu-
lously clean. On the first night of the open-
ing, the matron selects Arom the women who
have sought an asylum there, three, who are
engaged for the season to do the household
work. This is dune dining the day when the
inmates are absent All must leave by eight
in the morning, tho doors being open for their
departure at five, in case any wish to quit early
— as some do for the chance of a job at
Covent-garden, Farringdon, or any of the early
markets. The three women-helpers receive
7s. a- week each, the half of that sum being paid
them in money every Saturday, and the other
half being retained and given to each of them,
in a round sum, at the closing of the llefuge.
The premises in which this accommodation to
the houseless is now supplied were formerly a
hat manufactory on a laige scale; but the
lath and plaster of the ce^gs, and the par-
titions, have been removed, so that what was
a suite of apartments on one floor is now
a long ward. The rafters of the ceilings are
minutely whitewashed, as are the upright
beams used in tlie construction of the several
rooms before the place was applied to its
present charitable end. Those now are in the
nature of pillars, and add to the catacomb-like
aspect that I have spoken of. In different
parts of each ward are very large grates, in
which bright fires are kept glowing and crack-
ling; and as these are lighted some time before
410
LOUDON XiABOVn AVJ> THE LONDON POOM,
the hour of opening, the plaoe has a wannth
and cosiness which most be veiy grateAil to
those who hare enconntered the cold air all
the day, and perhaps all the night before.
In order to arrive at a correct estimate as to
tlie number of the really poor and houseless who
availed themselves of the establishment (to
afford nightly shelter to whom the refbge was
originally instituted by the benevolent founder,
Mr. Hick, the City mace-bearer) I consulted
with the superintendent as to the class of per-
sons he found most generally seeking refuge
there. These were — among the men — mostly
labourers out of work— agricultural, railway,
and dock; discharged artisans, chiefly carpen-
ters and painters ; sailors, either cAst away or
without their registry tickets; broken-down
tradesmen, clerks, shopmen, and errand-boys,
who either through illness or misfortune had
been deprived of their situations ; and, above
all, Irish immigrants, who had been starved
out of their own oountiy. These he con-
sid(>red the really deserving portion of the
inmates for whom the institution was designed.
Among the females, the better and largest
class of poor were needlewomen, servants,
rhaiwomon, gardenwomcn, sellers of laces in
the street, and occasionally a b^gar-woman.
Under his guidance I selected such as ap-
peared the most meritorioas among the classes
he had enumerated, and now subjoin the
statements of a portion of the number.
The first of the houseless that I saw was a
rwlway navigator. He was a fine, stoutly-
built fellow, with a fViesh-coloured open coun-
tenanco, and flaxen hair — indeed, altogether a
splendid specimen of the Saxon labourer. He
was habited in a short blue smockfrock, yellow
in parts with clay, and he wore the heavy high
lace-np boots, so characteristic of the tribe.
These were burst, and almost soleless with
long wear.
The poor fellow told the old story of the
labourer compelled to squander the earnings al
the public-house of his master : —
'* I have been a navvy for about eighteen
years. The first work that I done was on the
Manchester and Liverpool. I was a lad then.
I used to grease the railway waggons, and got
about In. 6d. a -day. There we had a tommy-
shop, and we had to go there to get our bit of
victuals, and they used to charge ns an extra
price. The next place I had after that was on
the London and Brummagem. There I went
as horse-driver, and had 2*. 6rf. a- day. Things
was dear then, and at the tommy-shop they was
nuich dearer ; for there was tommy-shops on
every line then ; and indeed every contractor
and sub-contractor had his shop that he forced
his men to deal at, or else he wouldn't have
them in his employ. At the tommy-shop we
was charged half as much again as we should
have had to pay elsewhere ; and it's the same
now, wherever these tommy-shops is. What
the contractors, you see, can't m Ae out of the
company, they fleeces out of the men. Well,
sir, I worked on that line tbrongh all the
diflferent contracts till it was finished: some-
times I was digging, sometunes shoyelling. I
was mostly at work at open cuttings. All this
time I was getting from fU. dd. to Ss. and
Hn. (\(t. a-day ; that was the top price ; and if
rd had the ready-mon^ to lay out myself, I
could have done pretty well, and maybe have
put a penny or two by against a ndny day :
but the tommy-shop and the lodging-house
took it all out of us. Tou see, the tommy-
shop found us in beer, and they would let us
drink away all our earnings there if we pleased,
and when pay-time came we shonld have
nothing to take. If we didn't eat and drink at
the tommy-shop we should have no woik. Of
an evening, we went to the tommy-shop after
the drink, and they'd keep drawing beer for us
there as long as we'd have ai^rthlng eosiing
to us next pay.day (we were paid every fort-
night, and sometimes every month), and when
we had drunk away all that would be coming
to us, why they'd turn us out The contractor,
who keeps these tommy-shopa, is generally a
gentleman, a man of great property, who
takes some four, five, or seven lengths to do.
Well, with such goings on, in course then
wasnt no chance in the world for us to save a
half^nny. We had a sick ftind among oar-
selves, but our masters never eared nothing
about us farther than what they could get out
of us at their tommy-shops. They were never
satisfied if a man cUdn't spend all his monej
with them ; if we had a penny to take at tibe
month's end, they didnt like it| and now the
half of us has to walk about and starve, or beg,
or go to the union. After I left the Bmn-
magem Une, I went on to the Great Western*
I went to work at Maidenhead. There it was
on the same system, and on the same rules—
the poor man being fleeced and made dmnk
by his master. Sometimes the contractor
would lot the work out to some sub-cantractor,
and he, aftor the men had worked for a month,
would run away, and wo should never see the
oolotir of his money. After the GKat Western,
I went into Lancashire, on the Manchester
and Oldham branch. I started there to woik
at nights, and there I worked a month for the
contractors, when they went bankrupt, and
we never received a farthhsg but what we hod
got out of the tommy-shop. Well, I came
away from there, and got on to the London
and Brighton, and I worked all up and down
that, saving the tunnels ; and it was the same
there — the tommy-shop and imposition was
wherever we went Well, flrom there I went
on to the London and Dover. It was monthly
payments on that There, too, I worked for
a month, when the sub-contractor runned
away with all the men's money — 900/., sir, it
were calculated. After that another party
took it, and it was the same all the way i^
and down — the tommy-shop and beer as
much as we liked, on credit Then I went on
to the London and Cambridge, and there it
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
411
was the Bame story over and over again. Just
about this time, railway work began to get
slacky and then farmers' work was slack too ;
and yoa see that made things worse for
the navvies, for all came to look for employ,
ment on the railroads. This is about seven
years ago. After that some more fresh lines
started throughout Lancashire and Yorkshire,
and trade being bad in tliem parts, all the
weavers applied for work on the railways, and
the regular navvies had a hard time of it then.
But we managed to get on somehow — kept lin-
gering on — till about three years agone, when
trade got a little bit better. That was about the
time when things was very dear, and our
wages was rose to 3«. 6rf. a-day.: they'd been
only Us. Qd. and 3». before that ; and we did
much better when our pay was increased, be-
cause we had the ready-money then, and there
was no tommy-sliops that summer, for the
company wouldn't have them on that line. At
the end of that year the work was all stopped,
on account of the Chartist rising, and then
there was hundreds of men walking about
begging their bread from door to door, with
nothing to do. After this, (that's two years
ago, the back end of tliis year,) I went to work
cm the London and York. Here we had only
2<. 9<i. a-day. and we had only four days' work
in the week to do besides; and then there
was a tomniy-shop, where we were forced to
get our victuals and drink : so you see wo were
very bad off then. I stopped on this line (for
work was very scarce, and I thought myself
lucky to have any) till last spring. Then all
the work ou it stopped, and I dare say 2000
men were thrown out of employ in one day.
They were all starving, the heap of them, or
next door to it I went away from there over
to the Bnmimagem and Beeohley branch line.
But there I found things almost as bad as
irhat I left before. Big, strong, able-bodied
men were working for \$, 8rf. a-day, and from
that to 2j». : that was tlie top price ; for wages
had come down, you see, about one-half, and
litUe or no work to do at that price ; and tommy-
shop and beer, sir, as before, out of the little
we did get. The great cause of our vrages
being cut down was through the work being so
slack in the country ; everybody was flocking
to them parts for employment, and the con-
tractors, seeing a quantity of men walking
backwards and forwards, dropped the wages :
if one man wouldn't work at the price, there
was hundreds ready to do it Besides, pro-
visions was very cheap, and the contractors
knew we could Hve on less, and do tiidr work
I quite as well. Whenever provisions goes down
I our wages does, too ; but when they goes up,
I the contractors is very slow in rising them.
I You see, when they find so many men walking
about without work, the masters have got
the chance of the poor man. Three year
agone this last winter — I think it was '46 —
provisions was high and wages was good ; and
in the summer of the veiry same year, food got
cheap again, and our wages dropped from
8s. M, to 3«. and 2«. 0<^ The fall in our
wages took place immediately the food got
cheaper. The contractors said, as we could
live for less, we must do the work for less. I
left the Brummagem and Beechley line, about
two months before the Christmas before last,
and then I came to Copenhagen-fields, on the
London and York — the London end, sir ; and
there I was till last March, when we were all
paid off, about 600 on us ; and I went back to
Bamet, and there I worked till the last seven
weeks, and had 2«. Qd. a-day for what, four
years ago, I had 3«. 6(i. for ; and I could only
have three or four days' work in the week
then. Whilst I was there, I hurted my
leg, and was laid up a month. I lived
all that time on charity; on what the
chaps woidd come and give me. One would
give a shilling, another sixpence, another a
shilling, just as they could spare it ; and poorly
they could do that, God knows I I couldn't
declare on to the sick fund, because I hadn't
no bones broken. Well, when I come to look
for work, and that's three weeks agone, when
I could get about again, the work was all
stopped, and I couldn't get none to do. Then
I come to London, and I've looked all about
for a job, and I can't find nothing to do. I
went to a lodging-house in the Borough, and
I sold all my things — shovel and grafting-tool
and aD, to have a meal of food. When idl my
things was gone, I didn't know where to go.
One of my mates told mo of this Befuge, and I
have been here two nights. All that I have
had to eat since then is the bread night and
morning they gives us here. This will be the
last night I shall have to stop here, and after
that I don't know what I shall do. There's
no railway work — that is, there's none to speak
of, seeing the thousands of men that's walking
about with nothing to do, and not knowing
where to lay their heads. If I could get any
interest, I should like to go away as an emi-
grant I shouldn't like to be sent out of my
native country as a rogue and a vagabone ; but
I'm tired of stopping here, and if I can't get
away, why I must go home and go to the
parish, and it's hard for a young man that's
willing and able like me to work, and be forced
to want because he can't get it I know there
is thousands — ^thousands, sir, Uke I am — ^I
know there is, in the very same condition as I
am at this moment : yes,! know there is." [This
he said with ver>' great feehng and emphasis.]
" We are all starving. We are all willing to
work, but it ain't to be had. This country is
getting very bad for labour ; it's so overrun
with Irish that the Englishman haant a
chance in his own land to live. Ever since I
was nine years old I've got my own living, but
now I'm dead beat, though I*m only twenty-
eight next August"
The next man to whom I spoke was tall
and hale-looking, except that his features were
pinched, and hu eyes had a dull laok-lostre
No. LXXVill.
B ^
4IJ
LOWBOS LADOVli AND THE LONDOK POOB.
lo<^!:, common t) men suffering from cold aiid
liuu'-^cr. His dress was ii coftrso jacket, fustian
lrou-(Ts, and coawe, hard-worn shoes. Ho
HiM»l.i>, witliout any vei^' provincial accent,
" 1 am now forty-eight, and have been a
fiirni-ljtbourer all my life. I am a single man.
Wh«n I was a bf>y of twolv(?, I wj\s put to dig,
or see after the binU, or birak clods, or any-
thin;;, on a farm at Croland, ia Lancoshir*'.
1 IiikI ver}' little scliool b«»f(>re that, and can
neither read nor wnto. I was then living
with my parents, poor people, who worked on
the land whenever they couM get a day's
work. We had to live very hard, hut at Imy
and harvest times we had meat, and lived
bettrr. I had 3«. a-week as a boy. When I
grew up to fourteen I left home. I thought
my father di»ln't use me well : perhaps it was
my owTi fault. I might have been a bad boy ;
but ho was severe when he did begin with me,
though ho was generally quiet When his
passion was up, tliere was no bearing it. Any-
how, I started into ilic world at fourteen to do
the best I could f<»r myself — to make my for-
tUTie if I cr)uld. Since then, I have had work
in all sorts of counties ; Midland counties,
principally. When a boy, I got employment
reiulily enough at bird-scaring, or hay-making;
but I soon grew up, and took a man's place
very early, nn<l I could then do any kind of
fanner's work, except ploughing or seeding.
They have men on pui-pose for that. Farm
work was far bettor in my younger days than
It is now. For a week, when hired by the day,
I never get more than 15«., regular work. For
tikon work (by the job), I have made as much
as ii*. in a week; that is, in reaping and
mowing, when I could drop on such jobs in a
ilifficult season, when the weather was uncer-
tain. I talk of good times. The last good
job I had was three years ago, come next
hunnner. Now I should be glad to get 95.
a-week, constant work : anything but what
I'm doing now. As I went about from plocc
to place, working for fiumers, I generally
lodged ot the shepherds' houses, or at some
labourer's. I never was in a lodging-house
when I was in work, only when money runs
low one must have shelter. At some lodging-
houses I've hail a good feather-bed ; others of
them ore bad enough : the best, I think, ai*e
in Norfolk. I have saved a bit of money
several times — indeeil, year after year, until
the last three or four years ; but what I saved
in the summer, went in the winter. In some
summers, I could save notfiing. It's how the
season comes. I never cared for drink. I've
done middling till these last two seasons.
INIy health was good, to be sure ; but when a
man's in health his appetite is good also ; and
when I'm at regular work I don't eat half so
much as when I'm knocking about idle, and
get hold of a meal. I often have to make up
for three or four d:vvs thru. The List job I
had was six weeks Ix^fore Christmas, at Boston,
in Line ilnshij-e. I couldn't make 1». (Sd. a-day
on account of the irenther. I had 1S«., hew-
ever, to start with, and I went on the rood^
not standing for a straight rood, bat going
v/here I heard tliero was a chance of a job, up
or down anywhere, here or there, but there
was always the same answer, * Nobody wanted
— no work for their own oonstont men.' I
was so beat out as soon as my money was
done — and it Listed ten days — ^that I ported
with my things one by one. First my waist-
coat, then my stockings (three pair of them),
then three shirts. I got 2s. ^r/. ft^r three shirts,
and Or/, a pair for my stockings. My clothesi
w<Te done, and I parted with my pocket-knife
for 'id., and with my 'bacco-hox for l\d.
After I left Boston, I got into Leicestersliire,
and was at Cambridge, and Wisbeoch, and
Lynn, and Norwich; and I heard of a job
among brickmakers at Low Easthrop, in
Suffolk, but it was no go. The weather was
against it, too. It was when the snow set in..
And then I thought I would come to London,,
as God in his goodness might send me some-
t hing to do. I never meant anything slinking.
I'm only happy when I'm at work, but here I
am destitute. Some days as I walked up
I had nothing to eat At others I got half-
pennies or pennies from men like myself that
I saw at work. I've given slnllings away that
way myself at times. Sometimes I had to
take to the road, but Fm a very poor beggar.
When I got to I^ndon I was a stranger, and
lodged here the first night— that's a week ago.
A policeman sent me here. I've tried every
day to get work — labouring- work for builders,
or about manure-cails, or anything like that,
as there's no farming in Ix)ndon, but got
none; so but for Uiis place I had starved.
When this place is closed I must tramp inio
the comitry. There are very many farui-
hibourers now going from farm to farm, and
town to town, to seek work, more than ever I
saw before. I don't know that the r^ular
farm -workmen come so much to London. As
I travelled up from Suffolk I lay rough often
enough. I got into stables, or any places.
Such places as this save many a man's life.
It's saved mine, for I might have been founJ
dead in the street, as I didn't know wh«rc
to go."
This man appeared to me to be a very
decent character.
Tlic large number of Irish found among
the inmates of these establishments is one of
the pecidiar features of the Refuges. By the
returns above given, it will bo. seen that they
constitute more than one-half of the total
applicants. Such being tlie fact, I selectiHl
two from the more decent, as typos of tint
better class of immigrants, and subjoin their
narratives.
One of these men had a half-shrewd, half-
stolid look, ond was clad in very dirty fustian.
His beard was some days old, and he looked
ill-fed and wretched. His cliildrcn — for ha
had two boys i\-ith him, ten and twelve years
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
413
oM — -ivvre Hlio<*lcr>s, their white skins being a
contnist to their dirty dresn, as the former
appeared tlirongh the holes in their jackets.
Tliey looked on Trith a sort of vacant wonder,
motionloss, and without a woril. The father
said : —
" I've been knocking about in England these
four years from plnre to place. I'm tolling
yon the tnith, sir. [This he often repeated.] I
came here to betther myself, to knock out
something betther; but I wish to God I'd
been buried before I buried my wife and
children. I do, indeed, sir. I was a labourer
in Ireland, working in fanns and gardens for
anybody. My wnges wam't much, only 3s.
a- week, and my datal house (that is, a house
rent-free), and two meals of victuals a-day,
sometimes 'tatics and milk for moals, and
sometimes "tatios and fish, and sometimes —
aye, often — 'taties nnd nothing. My wife and
me, and four children, came from Cork — it
was in the county Cork I lived^to Wales.
I dou*t know the name of the pail ; they've
such queer names there ; sure, then, they have,
sir. It cost me hall'-a-crown a-piece for the
six of us. I raised the money partly by
digging up a garden I had, and selling what
stuff there was, and the rest was made up by
the farmers in the neighbourhood giving their
.')(/. or 0</. a-piece to uie, so that I might lave.
I wasn't on the xioor-law rate, but I soon might
When I got to Wides, I had only Crf. left. I
went to the workhouse for a night's lodging, to
be sure — what else ? I started next day for
London with my wife and children, begging as
we^came, and going from workhouse to work-
house; and very badly we flot along. It
finished u fcirt night to get t) London. When
v.i3 got to London (that's about four years
agone) we got work at peas-picking, my
wile and me, in the gardens about That
is for the summer. In the winter we sohl
oranges in the sticet.s while she lived, and
we hnd nothing from the parishos. I can't
complain of the living till this time, sir; it
was l>ettor tlum I knew in Ireland. I don't
know what we got, she managed all. Last
autumn we went into the hop county, to Ellis's
farm. I don't know the town nearest; and
there my wife and two children died of the
cholera at the farm. The three of them
wem't a week ill. The parish kept them and
buried them. Since that I've been worse oft'
tlian ever, and will id ways bo worse off than
ever, for I've lost a good wife. Since her
deatli I jobbed about in the country, living
veiy bare, me and the children, till the frost
came, and then we come to London. I was
knocking about for a fortnight, and begged a
little ; but sorrow a much I got by that How
did I know of this place*/ Mu.sha, all the
neij^hbours know about it*
The younger man, who was tall and
gaunt, more intelligent than the other, and
less squalid in his appearance, said:-—
** I have been in England two years in
AugiLst. I came to better my living. I
tilled a portion of land in Ireland. It was
30/. a-year rent, and forty acres. That w:is in
the county Cork, parish of Kilmeen. I rented
the land of a middleman, and he was very
severe. My family and I couldn't live under
him. I had a wife and three children. We
all came to England, from Cork to Bristol. I
kept a little substance back to pay my way to
England. The voyage cost Su*. From Bristol
I went to Cardiff, as I got no work at Bristol.
At Cardiff I worked on the railway at 2a. 0//.
a-day. I did well for a couple of months. I
would like to continue at that, or at \s. a-day
here, better than in Ireland these times. I
worked in Cardiff town with a briclJayer,
after I'd done on the railway, at 12^. awetk.
I next year had a twelvemonth's work, on nnd
off, 'with a farmer near Bristol, at 10s. a-wcck,
and was still plenty comfortable. I made for
London at the hay-han'est I had a little
money to start with, but I got no hay-work,
only a trifle of work at the Do<;ks. In corn-
harvest, near Brighton, I worked for six weeks,
making 10s. an acre for cutting wheat by piece-
work, and 7s. for oats, and iis. for any day's
work. I made 4/. altogether. I got back to
London with 40s. I could got no work at all,
but five days' work at a stone-yard, at Is. a-day.
I sold a few things in the streets, oranges and
apples; so did my wife. It helpetl to keep
us. All was gone at last, so I got in here with
one child (a fine boy). My wife's got thive
with her. She's in a lo<lging in Oray's-inn-
lane. She's stai*\ing, I'm afraid; but she
wished mo to come in here with the child, as
I could do nothing at night-time. I don't
know how many came over about the time I
did. The gentry give poor men money, or did
give it to them, to sentl them over heiv, to ftee
the land from its expenses.'*
To complete the ])ictnre of this Irish desti-
tution, I add the following.
One wTetched creature had come to tho
Refuge with her four children. She herself
was habited in a largo blue cloth cloak, her
toes were through the end of her shoes, and
her gown clnng tight to her limbs, telling that
she was utterly destitute of under clothing.
In her arms she carried an infant, round
which were wound some old woolbni rags. As
the little thing sucked at its mother's breast
it breathed so hard that it needed no wonls to
UA\ of its long exposure to the cold. Though
the mother was hjdf-clad, still there was the
Uttle bit of clean net inside tlie old nisty straw
l>onnet. The children were respectively elev«'n,
six, and three years old. Tho eldest (a gootl-
looking grey-eyed girl, who atoo<l with her
forefinger in her mouth, half simple) was
covered vnih a tattered plaid shawl. This, at
her mother's bidding, she drew from h. r
shoulder witli an ostentation of poveiiy, to
show that what had before appeared a gown
beneath was nothing mon> than a bombazine
pettic4>at On her feet were a piur of women'g
lU
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOS,
old fashionable shoes, tied on with string.
These had been given in charity to her by a
servant a week back. The next child — a boy
—laughed as I looked at him, and seemed,
though only six years old, to have been made
prematurely "knowing" by his early street
education. He put out his foot as he saw my
eye glance downward to his shoes, to show me
that he had one boot and one shoe on. He
was clad in all kinds of rags, and held in his
hand a faded velvet cap. The youngest boy
was almost a dwarf. He was three years old,
but so stunted that he seemed scarce half that
age.
"I come from the county of Corruk, the
worst and the poorest part of it — yos, indeed,
sir, it is," saiil the woman ; *• and the gintle-
men know that I do. When I had it to do, I
manufactured at flax and wool. I knit and
sewed, to be sure I did ; but God Almighty
was plazod io deprive me of it. It was there
I was married. My husband was a miner.
Distress and want, and hunger and poverty —
nothing else — druv us to this counthry. It
was the will of God — glory be to his holy
and blessed name! — to fail Uie 'taties. To
be sun;, I couldn't dig one out of the ground
not fit to ate. We lived on 'taties, and
milk, and fish, and eggs. We used to have
bins then. And the mining failed, too;
and the captains came over here. Yes, to
be sure; for hero they lived, sir. Yes, sir,
indeed ; and I could teU you that I used to be
eight days — yes, that I did — before I could
get one ha*porth to ate — barring the wather I
boiled and drank to keep tjae life in myself
and children. It was DoctJTr O'Donovan that
paid for our passage. When he see all the
hunger, and distress, and want ^ yes, indeed,
sir — that I went through, he gave a letther to
the stame-packct ofiice, and then they brought
me and my three childer over. It was here
that this baby was borrun. My husband was
hero before me, ho was, about seven or eight
months. He hadn't sent mo any money, for
he couldn't a penny. He wrote home to see
if I lived, for he didn't think I lived ; and then
I sliowed tlie letther to Dr. O'Donovan. My
husband nivcr got a day's work since he came
over ; indeed, he couldn't give the childer their
lireakfast the next morning after they came.
I came to London-bridge, and met my husband
there. Well, indeed, that is nearly three years
ogone. Oh, thin, I had nothing to do since
hut what little we done at the harvest. It was
tin weeks before Christmas that I came over,
and I don't know what month it was, for I
don't read or write, you know. Oh, thin, in-
deed, we had to live by begging from that up
to harvest time. I had to beg for him sooner
than let him die with the hunger. He didn't
do any work, but he'd be glad of a sixpence
he'd earn. He'd rather have it that way than
if he'd begged tin pound — it would be more
plisure. Never a day's work could he get;
and mfiny boside him. Oh, Lord, thoro is?
many, sir. He never does anything but at the
harvest-time, and then he works at raping the
corrun. I know nothing else that he does;
and I bind the shaves sUtkBT him. Why, in-
deed, we get work then for about a fortnight
or three weeks — it don't howld a month. Oh
no, sir, no ; how could my children do any-
thing, but as fast as we'd earn it to ate it ? I
declare I don't know how much we'd make a-
week then. They got only eight shillings an
acre last year for it. I declare I don't know
what we made; but whatever we had, we
hadn't two shillings laving it. Ah, indeed, I
had to bog oil the rest of my time. My bus-
band doesn't beg — I'll tell you the thmth.
The thruth is the best. When he has e'er a
penny, he tries to sell a handfol of oranges ;
and, indeed, ho had to lave off silling, for he
couldn't buy half a hundred of 'em to sill
back. He done pritty well when the onions
were in season, he did, sir; but there's so
many silling oranges, he can't sill one of 'em.
Now he does nothing, for he has nothing to
reach half a hundred of limons with, and that
isn't much. When I gets a pinny to pay for
the lodgings, then we lodges and sleeps toge-
ther ; but when I can't, I must go about this
way with my children. When I go out beg-
ging, he 'remains at home in the lodging-
house ; he has nothing else to do, sir. I ^•
ways go out with my childer ; sure I couldn't
look at 'em die with hunger. Where's the use
of laving them with the husband ; what has
he to give them 7 Indeed, if I had left them
last night with him, he couldn't have give them
as much as they'd put in their mouths onced.
Indeed, I take them out in the cowld to 6ig
with me to get a bit of victuals for 'em. Sure
God knows I can't hilp it — ^he knows I can't
— glory be to his holy name ! Indeed, I have
a part of the brid I got here last night to
carry to my poor husband, for I know he
wanted it Oh, if I'm to go to the gallows,
I'm telling you tlio thruth. Oh, to be sure,
yes, sir ; there's many a one would give a bit
to the childer when they wouldn't to me—
sure the world knows tliat ; and maybe the
childer will get ha'pence, and that wiU pay my
lodging or buy a loaf of brid for 'em. Oh, sir,
to be sure, you know I'd get more with all my
little childer out than I would with one, and
that's the rason indeed. Yes, indeed, that's
why I take them out ! Oh, then, that's what
you want to know ! Why, there's some people
wouldn't believe I'd have so many. Maybe,
some days I wouldn't get a pinny, and maybe
I'd git a shilling. I met a gintleman the other
day that gave me a shilling together. I'd all
my childer out i^th me then. The sister car-
ries the little fellow on her back, no more
would he stop afbher me nayther. Only twice
I've left him at home. Oh thin, indeed, he do
cry with the cowld, and often again with the
hunger ; and some of the people says to me
it's myself that makes him cry ; but thin, in-
deed, it ain't. Maybe I've no home to give my
LONDON LABOXm AND THE LONDON POOR.
415
husband, maybe it's at some union he slept
last night. My husband niver goes bigging,
he didn't, sir — ^I won't tell a lie— he didn't, in-
deed; bat he sinds me out in the cowld, and
in the wit, and in the hate, too : but thin he
can't help it. He's the best man that iyer
put a hat on his hid, and the kindest."
She persisted in asseverating this, being
apparently totally incapable of perceiving the
inhimianity of her husband's conduct.
" He don't force me — he don't, indeed — ^but
ho sits idle at home while I go out Ah, if
you knew what I suffers ! Oh, yes, he'd rather
work, if I'd got a guinea in gowld for him to-
night; and yesterday morning he prayed to
God Almighty to put something in Ms way to
give him a day's work. I was in prison onced
for bigging. My children was taken away
from mo, and sint to some union. I don't
know the name of it. That was the time my
husband was siUiug the limons. He niver
came to spake for me when I was going to
prison, and he doesn't know whether I'm in
prisin to-night Ah, I beg your honour's par-
don, he would care, but he cant help me. I
thought rd ind my life in the prisin, for I
wouldn't be allowed to spake a word. The
poor man, my husband, can't help it. He was
niver counted lazy in his counthry ; but God
Almighty plazed to -deprive him of his work,
and what can he do ?"
The next was a rather tall and weU-spoken
woman of fifty-eight.
" When I was young," she said, ** I used to
go out to day's works, or charing, and some-
times as a laundress. I went charing till five
years ago, sometimes doing middling, often
very badly, when I burst a blood-vessel in
lifting a weight— ft pail of water to fill a cop-
per. I feU down all at once, and bled at the
ears and nose. I was taken to St. Bartholo-
mew's, and was there four months. When I
came out, I took to sell things in the street. I
could do nothing else. I have no friends in
London — none in the world. Sometimes I
picked up a living by seUing laces, and iron-
holders, and memorandum -books, in the City.
I made the memorandum-books myself —
]>enuy books. The pincushions I made my-
self. I never had anything finom my parish,
or ratlier my husband's — tiiat's Bristol. He
was a bricklayer, but I chared when he was
out of work. He died eighteen years ago. I
was known by ladies and others in the City,
who would sometimes give me a sixpence for
a lace. I was working two months back — it
was the general thanksgiving-day — when I was
working at a fishmonger's in Gresham-street,
and fell down the ceflar stairs and broke my
arm. I was again three weeks in Bartholo-
mew's hospitaL I have been destitute ever
since. I have made away with eveiything. A
little quilt is all I have left, and that would
have gone last night if I hadnt got in here."
The i>oor woman whom I next accosted was
a widow (her husband having died only a few
months before). She had altogether what I
may call a faded look ; even her widow's cap
was limp and flat, and her look was miserably
subdued. She said: —
*< My husband was a journeyman shoemaker.
Sometimes he would earn SOt. a-week ; but we
were badly off, for he drank ; but he did not
ill-use me--not much. During his last illness
we raised 0^. on a raffle for a sUk handkerchief
among the shoemakers, and IO5. fh>m the
Mendicity Society, and a few shillings from
the der^nninan of the parish. The trade
buried hun. I didnt get It. as his widow —
only 6/. to bury him ; but there was arrears
of rent to pay, and about a month after his
death I hadn't a farthing, and I took the
cholera, and was eight days in St. Bartho-
lomew's, the parish officers sending me there
in a cab. I Uved in fhmished lodgings before
that, and had nothing to call my own, when I
had pawned my black for my husband. When
I got out I helped a neighbour at shoe-binding.
One time I have earned 155. a-week at shoe^
binding for , Begent-street Now I can
only earn A«. with f^iU work. I have seldom
earned 3«. of late weeks. I had to leave my
neighbour, because I felt that I was a burden,
and was imposing upon her. I then had a
shelter with a young woman I once lodged
with, but I coiddn't stay there any longer.
She was poor, and had nothing for me to do.
So, on Saturday last, I had no work, no money,
no friends, and I thought I would trj and get
in here, as another poor woman had done.
Here I've had a shelter."
A pretty, pleasant -spoken young woman,
very tidy in her poor attire, which was an old
doak wrapped <dose round her, to cover her
scanty dr^s, gave me the following statement
very modestly : —
"I am twenty-two; my mother died six
years ago ; my father I never knew, for Tm
an unlawftil child. My mother had a small
income f^m my father, and kept me at school.
I can't even guess who my father was. I am
an only child. I was tfdien from school to
wait upon my mother ; veiy kind indeed she
was to me, but she died in three weeks after
I came fh>m school. She'd been in a con-
sumption for six years; she fVetted sadly
about me. She never told me I was an un-
lawful child. My aunt, my mother's sister,
told me one day afterwards. My mother
always said my father Uved in the countzy. I
loved my mother, so I seldom spoke of my
father, for she would say, ' I dont wish to hear
about him.' There was nothing for me at my
mother's death, so I put myself to learn fancy-
box -making for grocers and pastrycooks, for
their sweetmeats, and for scents. My aunt
assisted me. She is now poor, and a widow.
I could never earn more than St. or 4$. a-week
at box-making, the pay is so bad. I lived this
way for four or five years, lodging with my
aunt, and giving her all I earned, and she
kept me for it I then went to learn the
410
LOKDOy LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOS,
Mvint'rsh cnat-maldntf. I went into lodgings, '
my iiunt beinp: nniibh* to help me any longer, us i
at my tincIe'H death Hhe could only keep a room
for her.t'rlf und childivii. She makes pill- 1
lutxtm. I rould earn at the Macintoshes only I
4m. aweek and ray tea, wh^'n in full work, and '
wlieri work wait )>ad, I earned only 2.f. Gd. It
w»M Hd. aday and my t<.*a. I parted with a j
K^KA \t4ix of clothes to keep iu,vself ; first one
bit of dn.'ss went, and another. I was exposed |
to many a temptati(/n, hut I have kt'pt my |
ctiaructcr, I am happy to say. On Monday
ni^ht I WRH in the Htn-etM all ni«;ht — 1 hardly
knew in what part, I was so miserable — having
no place to put my head in, and frif^humad to
death nliiKifit. I couldn't pay my lodf^ings, and
MO lost them — I was locked out I went to the
Htation -house, and asked to sit there for a
ahelter, but the imliceman said it wns no place
for me, as 1 was not guilty of any offfuce ;
they could do nothing for me : they were all
v<Ty civil. I WfUked the streets all that cold
night; 1 feel the cold of that night in my
limbs still. 1 thought it never would Im; ovor.
I wasn't expose<l to any insults. I ha<l to
walk alK)Ut all Tuesjlay, without a bite either
Monday or Tuesday. On Tuesday evening 1
got admitUid into this place, and was very
thankful. Next (Uiy I tried for work, but got
none. I had a cup of tea iVom my aunt to live
on that day."
This girl wished to get into tlio parish, in
order to bo sent out as an emigrant, or any-
thing of that kind ; but her illegitimacy was a
bar, as no settlomcnt could bo proved.
It was not ditHcult to sec, by the looks of
the i»oor woman whom I next adtlressed,
the distress and privation she had endured.
II (>r eyes wtTo full of Umu-s, and there was a
idiiintivencss in Iut voico that was most
ttmching. She was clad in rusty black, and hod
on a bla<!k straw bonnet with a few old crai>e
flowers in it ; but still, in all her poverty, there
was a neatness in her appearance that told
she was much unused to such abject miser}*
OS hml now come upon her. Hers was, in-
deiMl, a wretclud storj'— the victim of her
husband's ill-treatment and neglect: — *' I
have b«»en working at needlework ever since
the end of August My husband is living ;
but he has deserted m«', and I don't know
where he is at present. He had been a gen-
tleman's servant, but ho could attend to a
garden, and of late years ho had done so. 1
have been niariied nine years next April. 1
nover did live happily with him. He drank
a very gnmt deal, and when tipsy ho used
to b*»«t mo sorely. He had been out of work
for a long time before h«; got his last situa-
tion, and thon» he had iKs. a-week. Ho lost
his place before tliat through drink. Oh,
sir, perhaps he'd give me oil his money at
the *«nd of the week within three shillings ;
but then he'd have more than half t»f it back
ngoin — not every week olike, of course, but
that was mostly llie case— and in particular.
for the last year and a haU^ for nnoe then
he had be<.>n worse. 'Wliile he was with me
I have gone oat for a day'^ charing occasion-
ally, but then I found I was no foi'arder at the
week's end, and so I didn't strive so macb as
I might liave done, for if I earned two shillings
he'd be sure to have it from me. I was a ser-
vant, before he manied me, in a respectable
tradesman's family. I lived three years and
a half at my master's house out of town, and
that was where I fell in with my hu.sband.
He was a shopman then. I lived with him
more than eight years, and always acted a
lA-ife's part to him. I never drank myself,
and was never untrue to him ; bat he has
been too untrue to me, and 1 have had to
suflfer for it I bore all las unkindness until
August last, when he treated me so badly.
I cannot mention to you how — but he de-
ceived me and iivjured me in the worst pos-
sible manner. I have one child, a boy,
seven years old last September; but thi.s
boy is with him, and I don't know where. I
have striven to find him out, but cannot
When I found out how he had deceived me
we had words, and he then swore he wouldn't
come home any more to me, and he has kept
to his oath, for I haven't set eyes on him since.
My boy was down at a friend's house at Cam*
bridge, and they gave him up to the father
without my knowledge. When he went awiyr
I had no money in the house. Nothing but
a few things — tables, and chairs, and a bed
in a room. I kept them as long as I couU,
but at last they went to find me in food.
After he had gone I got a bit of ueedLe>work.
I worked at the dress-making and several
different kinds of work since he left me. Then
I used to earn about five shillings a-week;
sometimes not so much. Sometimes I have
mado only two sliillings, and lutolyr— that
is, within the last six weeks — I have earned
scarcely anything. About October last I was
obliged to sell my things to pay oif my rent
and get myself something to eat Alter that
I went to lodge with a person, and there
I stopped till very lately, when I had scarce
nothing, and couldn't afford to pay pay rent
Then I was turned out of there, and I went
and made shift with a friend by lying down
on the boards, beside her children. I lay
down witli my clotlies on. 1 had nothing
to cover me, and no bed under me. They
was very poor people. At last my friend
and her husband didn't like to have people
about in the room where they slept; and
besides, I was so poor I was obliged to beg a
bit of what th^ had, and they was so po^r
tliey couldn't afibrd to spare it to me. l*hey
were very good and kind to me so long as th*ry
could hold out anyhow, but at last I was
obliged to leave, and walk about the streets.
This I did for two whole nights — ^last Sunday
and Monday nights. It was bitter coltU and
freezing sharp. I did go and sit on the stairs
of a lodging-house on Monday night, till I «»3
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
417
that cold I could scarcely move a limb. On
Tuesday night I slept in the Borough. A lady
in the street gave me threepence. I asked
her if she could give me a ticket to go any-
where. I told her I was in the deepest dis-
tress, and she gave me all the halfpence she
had, and I thought I would go and have a
night's lodging with the money. All these
three days and nights I had only a piece of
bread to Jceep down my hunger. Yesterday I
was walking about these ports, and I see a
lot of people standing about here, and I asked
them if there was anything being given away.
They told me it was the Refuge, or else I
Hhouldn't have known there was such a place.
Had I been aware of it, I shouldn't have been
out in the streets all night as I was on Sunday
and Monday. When I leave here (and tlieyll
only keep me for three nights) I don't know
what I shall do, for I have so parted with my
things that I ain't respectable enough to go
after needlework, and they do look at you so.
My clothes are all gone to live upon. If I
could make myself look a little decent, I might
perhaps ^et some work. I wish I could get
into service again. I wish I'd never left it,
indeed : but I want things. If I can't get any
things, I must try in such as I have got on :
and ]f I can't get work, I shall be obliged to see
if the parish will do anything for me ; but I'm
afhiid they won't I am thirty-three years old,
and very miserable indeed."
From the opening of the Refuges for the
Houseless in 1820, until 1852, as many as
189,223 homeless individuals received "nightly
shelter " there, being an average of upworciU
of COOO a-year. Some of these have remained
three or four nights in the same establishment;
so that, altogether, no less than 1,141,558
nights' lodgings were afforded to the very poor,
and 2,778,153 lbs., or nearly 25,000 cwt. of
bread distributed among them.
Asylum for the Houseless Poob.
There is a world of wisdom to be learnt
at the Asylum for the Houseless Poor. Those
who wish to be taught in this, the severest
school of all, should pay a ^dsit to Playhouse-
yard, and sec the homeless crowds gathered
about the Asylum, waiting for the first opening
of the doors, with their bare feet, blue and
idcerous with the cold, resting for hours on
the ice and snow in the streets, and the bleak
stinging wind blowing through tlieir rags. To
hear the cries of the hungry, shivering chil-
dren, and the wrangling of the greedy men,
scrambling for a bed and a pound of dry bread,
is a thing to haunt one for life. There are
400 and odd creatures utterly destitute —
mothers with infimts at their breasts — fathers
with boys lioldiug by their side — the friendless
— the penniless — the shirtless, shoeless, bread-
less, homeless ; in a word, the very poorest of
this the very richest city in the world.
The iVsylum for the Houseless is the con-
fluence of the many tides of poverty that, at
this period of the year, flow towards the me-
tropolis. It should be remembered that there
are certain callings, which yield a subsistence
to those who pursue them only at particular
seasons. Brickmakers, agricultural labourers,
garden, women, and itiany such vocations, are
labours that admit of being performed only in
the summer, when, indeed, the labourer has
the fewest wants to satisfy. The privations of
such classes, then, come at a period when
even the elements conspire to make Uieir
destitution more terrible. Hence, restless with
want, they wander in hordes across the land,
making, in vain hope, for London, as the great
emporium of wealth — the market of the
world. But London is as overstocked with
hands as every other nook and comer of the
country. And then the poor creatures, far
away from home and friends, find at last to
their cost, that the very privations they were
flying from pursue thcra here with a tenfold
severity. I do not pretend to say tliat all
found within the walls of these asylums are
such as I have described; many, I know,
trade upon the sympathy of those who woidd
ease the sufforings of the destitute labourers,
and they make their appearance in the metro-
polis at this especial season. Winter is the
beggar's harvest That there ore hunrlreds
of professional vagabonds drawn to London at
such a time, I am well aware ; but with tliem
come the unemployed workmen. "We must
not, therefore, confound one with the other,
nor let our indignation at the vagabond who
will not work, check our commiseration for
the labourer or artisan who cannot get work
to do.
The table on the following page, which has
been made up with considerable care and no
little trouble, shows the number of persons
from different counties sheltered at the Asylum
for the Houseless Poor in the Metropolis for
fourteen years.
A homeless painter gave me the following
statement. His appearance presented nothing
remarkable. It was merely that of the poor
artisan. There was nothing dirty or squalid
about him :^
" I was brought up a painter," ho sidd,
" and I am now 27. I served my apprentice-
ship in Yorkshire, and stayed two years after
my term was out with the same master. I
then worked in Liverpool, earning but little
through illness, and working on and off as my
health permitted. I got married in Liverpool,
and went with my wife to Londonderry, in
Ireland, of which place she was a native.
There she died of the cholera in 1847. I
was very ill with diarrhoea myself. We lived
with her friends, but I got work, though
wages are very low there. I never earned
more than 2*. M. a-day there. I have earned
5«. Otf. a-day in Liverpool, but in Londonderry
provisions are very cheap— the best meat at
4<^. a-pound. It was an advantage to. me being
41b
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOP,
to
to
in I to { to
1841 11143 IN3
L«4at«44tH«
to i« to
IN4m«£iH4«
1147
1B4T
to
I84»
-J,
Tol^,
yi3Cfllaihlr« «-.-.
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iJivTDiiilitr*
160 »43
SocTS M<i)tAV& .iamiccn.-;
BftdforHjiihi™ \ 44
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iSucklnghvnihlrf ,,^...,,.. 40
NoiTUSk* A*f^ MlHtAlID
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LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
419
an Eziglishman. . Englinh w(»rkmen seem to
be preferred in Irelaad, so far as 1 oiiu toll,
and I have worked in Belfast aud Coleroiue,
and a sboi-t time iu Dublin, fis well as in
Londonderry. I conie back to Liveipool early
in 1848, and got work, but was again greatly
distressed tbix)Ugh fdokness. I Uien had to
travel the country again, getting a little em-
ployment at Hcniel Hempstead, and St.
Alban's, and other places about, for I aimed
nt London, and at last I got to London. That
was in November, 1848. When in the country
I wag forced to part with my clothes. I had
a beautiful suit of black among them. I very
seldom got even a tride from the painters in
the country towns ; sometimes 2d. or dd. from
a master. In London I could get no work,
and my shirts and my flannel-shirts went to
keep me. I stayed about a month, and having
nothing left, was r>bliged to start for the
country. I got a job at Luton, and at a few
other places. Wages are very low. I was
always a temperate man. Many a time I
have never tasted drink for a week together,
and this when I had money in my pocket, for
I had 30/. when I got married. I have, too,
the character of being a good workman. I
returned to Loudon again three weeks back,
but could And no work. I had again to part
with any odd things I had. The last I parted
with was my stopping-knife and diamond, for
I can work as a glazier and plumber ; country
painters often can — I mean those apprenticed
in the cauntiy. I have no clothes but what I
have on. For the last ten days, I declare
solemnly, 1 have had nothing but what I
picked up in the streets. I picked up crusts
that I saw iu the streets, put out on the steps
by the misti-esses of the houses for the poor
like myself. I got so weak and ill that I had
to go to Kings College Hospital, and they
gave me medicine wluch did me good. I
often had to walk the streets all night I was
so perished I could hardly move my limbs. I
never asked charity, I can't ; but I could have
eaten anything. I longed for the fried fish I
saw ; yes, 1 was ravenous for that, and such-
like, Uiough I couldn't have touched it when
I had money, and was middling well off.
Things are so different in the country that I
coulchi't fancy such meat I was brought to
that pitch, I had the greatest mind to steal
something to get into prison, where, at any
rate, I said to myself, I shall have some food
and shelter. I didn't — I thought better of it
I hoped something might turn up next day ;
besides, it might hare got into the papers,
and my friends might have seen it, and I
should have felt I disgraced them, or that
they would think so, because they couldn't
know my temptations and my sufferings.
When out all night, I used to get shelter, if I
could, about Hungerford Market, among the
straw. The cold made me almost dead with
sleep ; and when obliged to move, I couldn't
walk at firsts T could only crawl along. One
night I had a i)enny given me, all I had gotten
in five bitt**r nights in the streets. For that
penny I got half a pint of coffee ; it made me
sick, my stomach was so weak. On Tuesdd^
I asked a policeman if he couldn't recommend
me to some workhouse, and he told me to
come here, and I was admitted, and was very
thankful to get under shelter."
The next was a carpenter, a tall, ffne-built
man, with a pleasing expression of coun-
tenance. He was dressed in a flannel jacket
and fustian trousers, with the peculiar little
side-pocket for his foot-rule, that told you of his
calling. He was about 40 years of age, and
had the appearance, even in his destitution, of
a most respectable mechanic. It is astonish-
ing to mark the difference between the poor
artisan and the labourer. The one seems
alive to his poverty, and to feel it more acutely
than the other. The labourer is more accus-
tomed to ** rough it," as it is called ; but tlie
artisan, earning better wages, and used to
better ways, appears among the houseless
poor as a really pitiable character. Carpen-
ters are among the classes of mechanics in
which Uiere appears to bo the greatest amount
of destitution, and I selected this man as a
fair average specimen of the body. He said, —
" I have been out of work nearly three
months. I have had some little work in the
mean time, an odd job or two at intervals, but
nothing regular. When I am in full work,
on day work, I can make 5«. a-day in London;
but the masters very generally wishes the men
to take piece-work, and that is the cause of
men's work being cut down as it is, because
men is obliged to take the work as tliey offers.
I could get about 30«. a-week when I had good
employment. I had no one but myself to
keep out of my earnings. 1 have saved some-
thing when I have been on day- work ; but
then it went again as soon as I got to piece-
work. This is generally the case with the
carpenters. The last job I had was at Cobham,
in Surrey, doing joiners' work, and business
with my master got slack, and I was dis-
charged. Then I made my way to London,
and have been about from place to place since
then, endeavouring to get work from every
one that I knew or could get recommended to.
But I have not met with any success. Well,
sir, I have been obliged to part with all I had,
even to my tools ; though they're not left for
much. My tools are pawned for 13«., and my
clothes are all gone. The last I had to part
with was my rule and chalk-line, and them I
left for a night's lodging. I have no other
clothes but what you see me in at present
There are a vast many carpenters out of work,
and hke me. It is now three weeks since the
last of my things went, and after that I have
been about the streets, and gone into bakers'
shops, and asked for a crust Sometimes I
have got a penny out of the tap-room of u
public- house. It's now more than a fortnight
since I quitted my lodgings. I have been in
4J0
LOS DOS LABOUR ASD THE LONDON POOR,
111'; Asylum citrlit iii;ilit-». Befor« that, I was j
(*\\\. ill tlu; .stre*tH \i*r Tr.n ni^'hts toyetln-r. i
'rii«v wrn: v»ry coM iiiif]i»>» ; yr s, vrry:' [The |
in.'ifi Hhivcn-d jit th«: riM'oIl»-'-tion.] " I walked
lip rmo Htrt;«'t, nnrl (I'f.vii unoiht'i*. I Himietinies
K«»t imdrr n «lf)orw«y, Imt it wns impossible to
hi and htill long, it him s) cruel cold. The
sit.ft wiiH coming down ono night, and frecze<l
(Ml my clothirM 08 it fell. The cold mode me
htiffmorc tliiin Nh-c-py. It wan next day that
I fidt tir*'d ; and tht.n, it' I cnmc to sit down
ht n tirehiilr, I HhouM drop nshrcp in a minute.
1 trird, when I whs d(;ad-lie(it, to get into
St, CiihsH union, liut thoy wouldn't admit
me. Then the polico hent me up to
unotluir union: I for;;ct tiM; name, hut
tlicy refused mo. I trie<l at liiimbetli, and
there I WHS rct'UKod. 1 don't think I went a
dny without some small hit of bread. I begged
for it. l>ut wlien 1 walkc<l fmm St Albon's to
liondoii, I waHtwo dayn without a hit to put in
iiiy m(mth. I never Ht<de, not a particle, from
any person, in all my triidM. I wos brought
up honest., ufid, thank (lod, I have kept ro all
my lil'o. 1 would M'rirk willingly, and am
quite capable : yes, and I woidd du my work
with uU my heart, but it's not to Ikj got at."
This the poor fellow said with deep emotion ;
and. indeed, his wholo 8tatemcnt appeared in
every way w«>rthy of credit, 1 heard aftei-words
that he had otlVred to '*put up the stairs of
two houses" at some man's o\ni terms, rather
than remain um-mployed. lie had told the
master that his tools were in pawn, and pro-
inised. if they wito taken out of pledge for
him, to work for his bare food. He was a
nativ(4 (if Somerset, and his father and mother
weri» both dead.
1 then t(Hik the statxnnent of u seaman, but
one who, from destitution, had lost all tlie dis-
tinguishing characteristics of a sailor's dn*ss
of the better <lescription. He w<»ro a jacket,
Huch 04 seami;n somniuies wttrk in, too little
ior him. nnd vrry thin and worn ; a waistcoat,
i.nce bl:u*k ; a cotton shirt; and a pair of
canvas trouseis. He Inul an intelli;^i'nt look
enough, nud s]>oke in a straightforward man-
ner. He stated : — '* 1 am now thirty. five, and
have been a seaman all my lite. I lirst went to
sea, as a <*abin-boy, at Tortsmouth. 1 was
left an oqdnni at fouileen months, and don't
know that 1 have a single i-elation but njyself.
I dtai't know what my father was. I was
hrouv;ht up at the Portsea workhouse. 1 was
t.iujjht to i-ead and write. 1 went to sea in
iMii. I have continued a seaman ever
since — Sometimes doing jjretty well. The
l.u-gest sum I ever had in my possession
Mas .'IW. wliea l was in the Portuguese
sen ice, umler Ailmind Siuiorius, in the
• Donna Maiia' frigate. He hatln't his llag
aKvinl, but be counnandod the licet, such as
it. was : but ibm't call it a tleet, say a sqiia-
ilron. I'aptaii) Henrk* was my last captain
tlire; ami after him I sened mider Admiral
^Mpii-r; ho wa!^ a.lmir.d i:ut llnTc, with his
flag in the 'Kcal,* until Don Migtiers ships
were taken. The frigate I was in, (the * Donna
Mana,') took the * l*rincessa Ueal;' she was
a 44 -gun shij), and ours was a 3(). It vcv.s
a stifljsh tiling while it lasted, was the fight ;
hut we boarded and carried the ' I^rincessa.'
I never got all my prufte-money. I 8toppe<l in
Lisbon some time after the fight ; and then,
AS I couldn't meet with a passage to Kngland,
I took service on boord the * Donegal,' 74 guns.
Captain Fanshawe. I liked Lisbon pretty
well; they're not % vcxy tidy people —
treacherous, too, but not all of them. I
pickrnl up a very little Portuguese. Host of
my thirty-eight pounds went in Lisbon. The
* Donegal ' brought Don Corioa over, and wo
were paid oif in Plymouth; that was in )8:U.
Since Uien I have been in the merchant
service. I like that best Ikly last voyage
was in the * lUchard Cobden,' a barque of
:)80 tons, belonging to Dundee ; but she sailed
from Gloucester for Ardiangel, and back from
Archangel to Dimdee, with a cargo of hemp
and codilla. We were paid off in Dundee, and
I received 4/. H». on the 13th of October." [He
showed mo his discharge from the ' Bichanl
(.'obden,* and his register ticket] " I went to
Glasgow and got a vessel there, an American,
the *■ Union ; ' and before that I stiq^ at a
lodging-house in Dundee that sailors frequent
There was a shipmate of mine there, a car-
penter, and I Iclt my things in his cbargi*,
and I went on board the * Union' at Glasgow,
and staj'ed working on board eighteen days ;
she was short of men. The agreement be-
tween m<? and my old shipmate wafl» that he
should send my things when I required
them. My clothes were worth to me more
than 5/. The ship was to sail on Fkiday, ths
15th of November. Sailors dont mind getdag
under weigh on a Friday now ; and I got l(b.
from th(* skipper to take me to Dundee on
Thursday, the 14th; but when I got to Dundee
for my clothes. I found that the eupent^r
had left a fortnight before, taking idl my
things with him. I couldnt learn anytluDg
OS to M'here he had gone. One man told ne
he thouglit he had gone to Derry, where some
sai<l he had a wife. Tho skipper paid me for
what days I had been employed, and offered
to let me work a passage to New York, bat
not on wages ; because I had no dothes, K'
conl<ln't take me. I trieil eveiy ship in the
Broomilaw, but couldnt get a job, nor a pas-
sage to rx)ndon ; so me and two other seamen
set off to walk to London. I started with St.
One seaman left us at Carlisle. We dida't
live on the way — wo stan-ed. It took u> i
month to get to London. We slept sometimes
at the unions; some wouldn't admit us. I
was verj- lame at last. We reached I/»n'l«
a month ago. I got throe days' work as a
rigger, at *is, 6rf. a-day, ond a w^sek's shtli^r
in the Sailors* Asyhmi. I had five days' w r^
also on stevedore's work in tJ»c» 'Marrrj*;
West,' g(»ne to liata>i:i. That brought mi Vlu
<
o
o
W I
2|
O 5^
W
(4
O
QQ
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
421
those five days* work. Since that IVe done
nothing, and was so heat out that I had to
pass two days and nights in the streets. One
of those days I had a hit of bread and meat
from on old mate. I had far rather be out in
ft gale of wind at sea, or face the worst storm,
than be out two such nights again in such
weather, and with an empty belly. My mate
and I kept on trying to get a ship, but my old
jacket was all against me. They look at a man's
clothes now. I passed these two nights walk,
ing about Tower-hill, and to London-bridge
and back, half dead, and half asleep, with
cold and hunger. I thought of doing some-
thing to get locked up, but I then thought
that would be no use, and a disgrace to a
man, so I determined to bear it like a man,
and try to get a ship. The man who left us
at CarUsle £d no better than me, for he's here
too, beat out like me, and he told me of this
Asylum. The other man got a ship. I'm not
a drinking man, though I may have had a
spree or two, bnt that's all over. I could soon
get a ship if 1 had some decent clothes. I
bought these trousers out of what I earned in
London. I spun out my money as line as any
man could."
The poor fellow who gave me the following
narrative was a coloured man, with the regular
negro physiognomy, but with nothing of the
lightheart«d look they sometimes present.
His only attire was a sadly soiled shirt of
coarse striped cotton, an old handkerchief
round his neck, old canvas trousers, and shoes.
♦'I am twenty," he said, in good English,
" and was bom in New York. My father was
a very dark negro, but my mother was white.
I was sent to school, and can read a little, but
can't writ«. My father was coachman to a
gentleman. My mother spoke Dutch chiefly ;
she taught it to my father. She could speak
English, and always did to me. I worked in
a gentleman's house in New York, cleaning
knives and going errands. I was always well
treated in New York, and by all sorts of people.
Some of the * rough -uns' in the streets would
shout after mo as 1 was going to church on a
Sunday night. At church I couldn't sit with
the white people. I didn't think that any
hardship. I saved seven dollars by the time
I was sixteen, and then I went to sea as a
cabin-boy on board the* Elizabeth,' a brigantine.
My first voyage was to St. John's, New Bruns-
wick, with a cargo of com and provisions. My
second voyage was to Boston. After that I
was raised to be cook. I hod a notion I could
cook well. I had cooked on shore before, in a
gentleman's house, where I was shown cooking.
Pretty many of the cooks in New York are
coloured people — the men more than the
women. The women are chiefly chamber-
maids. There was a vacancy, I was still in
the ' Elizabeth,' when the cook ran away. He
was in a bother with the captain about wasting
tea and sugar. We went some more voyages,
and I then got engaged as cook on board a
new British ship, just off the stocks, at St.
John's, New Brunswick, the * Jessica.' About
four months ago I came in her to Liverpool,
where we were all paid off. We were only
engaged for the run. I received 5/. J paid
2/. 10«. to my boarding mistress for twa
months' board. It was 5s. and extras a- week.
I laid out the rest in clothes. I had a job in
Idveipool, in loading hay. I was told I had a
better chance for a ship in London. I tramped
it all the way, selling some of my clothes to
start me. I had 6s. to start with, and got to
London with hardly any clothes, and no
money. That's two months back, or nearly so.
I couldn't find a ship. I never begged, but I
stood on the highways, and some persons gave
me twopences and pennies. I was often out
all night, perishing. Sometimes I slept imder
the butchers' stalls in Whitechapel. I felt the
cold very bitter, as I was used to a hot climate
chiefly. Sometimes I couldn't feel my feet.
A policeman told me to come here, and I was
admitted. I want to get a ship. I have a
good character as a cook; my dishes were
always relished; my pea-soup was capital,
and so was my dough and pudding. I often
wished for them when I was stai-ving.*' [He
showed his white teeth, smiling as he spoke.]
" Often under the Whitechapel stalls I was so
frozen up I could hardly stir in the morning.
I was out all the night before Christmas that
it snowed. That was my worst night, I think,
and it was my first. I couldn't walk, and
hardly stand, when the morning came. I have,
no home to go to."
The next was a brickmaker, a man scarce
thirty, a stout, big-boned man, but a little pale,
evidently ft-om cold and exhaustion. His dress
was a short smockfrock, yellow with dry clay,
and fustian trousers of the same colour, &om
the same cause. His stAtement was as fol-
lows : —
*• I have been out of work now about seven
weeks. Last work I done was on the Middle
Level Draipage, m Cambridgeshire. Brick-
making generally begins (if the weather's fine)
about February, or the beginning of March,
and it ends about September, and sometimes
the latter end of November. If the weather's
fix)8ty, they can't keep on so long. I was at
work up to about the midiUe of "November
last, making bricks at Northfleet, in Kent I
was with the same party for three years before.
After that, brickmaking was done for the
season, and I was discharged with * five stools'
of us beside. Each stool would require about
six people to work it ; so that altogether thirty
hands were thrown out of work. After that I
went to look for work among the * slop ' brick*
makers. They makes bricks * slop- way' right
through the winter, for they're dried by flues.
I am by rights a sand-stock brickmaker. How-
somever, I couldn't get a job at brickmaking
slop-way, so I went down on the Middle Level,
and there I got a job at river-cutting ; but
the wet weather came, and the water was so
422
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
Btitmg upon 1111 that we got drownded out.
That's the laHt job I've had. At brickmakiDg
I hod 3«. 10</. a thouAand, this last summer.
I have had mj 4j. (^d. for the very same work.
Two years ago I had that Six of us could
make al>out 35,000 in a-week, if it was fine.
On an average, we should make, I dare say,
each of us about 1^. a-week, and not more,
because if it was a showery day we couldn't
do nothing at all. We used to join one among
another in the yard to keep our own sick.
l¥e mostly made tlie money up to \A». a-week
when any mate was bad. I did save a few
■hillings, but it was soon gone when I was
out of .work. Not many of the brickmakers
save. They work ft-om seventeen to eighteen
hours every day when it's fine, and that re-
quires a good bit to eat and drink. The brick-
makers most of them drink hard. After I
got out of work last November, I went away
to PetcrborDUgh to look for employment. 1
thought I might get a job on the London and
York ilailwfty, but I couldn't find none. From
there I tramped it to Grimsby: * perhaps,' 1
said, * I may get a job at the docks ;' but I could
g$t nothing to do there, so I came away to
rantlium, and from there back to Peter-
borough Qgnin, and after that to Northampton,
and tlien 1 mxulc my way to London. All
this time 1 had laid either in bams at night-
timoH, or Klopt in the casual wards of the
unions — that is, where they would have me.
Often I didn't get nothing to eat for two or
three days together, and often I have had to
1)eg a bit to kt^cp body and soul together. I
hnd no other means of living binco November
last but begging. When I came to town I
applied at a largo builder's ofHce for work. I
heard he had something to do at the Isle of
Dogs, but it was the old story — they were Ml,
and had plenty of hands till the days got out
longer. Then I made awoy to Portsmouth.
1 knew a man there who had some work, but
when I got there ho had none to give me at
the present time. From there I went along
the coast, begging my way still, to Hastings,
in hope of getting work at the railway ; but all
to no good. They had none, too, till the days
got longer. After that 1 came round to
I/ondon ogain, and I have been here a fort-
night come next Monday. I have done no
work. I have wandered about the streets any
way. I went to the London Docks to see for
a job, and there I mot with a man as I
knowed, and he paid for my lodging for one or
two nights. I walked the streets for two
whole nights before I came here. It was
bitter cold, lh>exing sharp, indet'tl, and I had
nothing to eat all tlie time. I didn't know
there was such a place as this till a policeman
told me. A gentleman ffave me 6</., and that's
all I've had since I've been in this town. I
have been for the last three nights at the
Asylum. I dtui't suppose tlieyll take my
ticket away till after t>-niorrow night, and
thv^n I thought of uu^king my way down home
till my woric starts again. I have sought for
work all over the coimtiy, and can*t get sny.
All the brickmakers are in the same stmte as
myself. They none of them save, and must
either starve or beg in the winter. Most
times we can get a job in the cold weather,
but this year, I don't know what it is, bnt I
can't get a job at all. Former years I got
railway woric to do, but now there's nothing
doing, and we're all starving. When I get
down home I shall be obliged to go into the
union, and that's hard for a young man Uke
me, able to work, and willing; but it ain't to
be had, it ain't to be had."
Then came a tailor, a yotmg man only
twenty-one years old, habited in a black fh>ck-
coat, with a plaid shawl twisted round his
nock. His eyes were ftell and expressive, and
he had a look of intelligence superior to any
that I had yet seen. He told a story which
my inquiries into the " slop trade " taught me
was " ower true."
*' I have been knocking about for near upon
six weeks," he replied, in answer to my in-
quiries. *' I was working at the slop-trade at
Uie West-end. I am a native of Scotland. I
was living with a sweater. I used to board
and lodge with him entirelv. At the week's
end I was almost always in debt with him — at
least he made it out so. I had veiy often to
work all night, but let me slave as hard as I
might I never could get out of debt with the
sweater. There were often as many as six of
us Uiere, and we slept two together in each
bed. The work had been slack for some time,
and he gave me employment till I worked
myself out of his debt, and then he tamed
me into the streets. I had a few clothes re-
maining, and these soon were sold to get food
and lodging. I lived on my other coat and
shirts for a week or two, and at last all was
gone, and I was left entirely destitute. Then I
had to pace the streets oil doy and night The
two nights before I came here I never tasted food
nor lay down to rest. I had been in a four-
penny lodging before then, but I couldn't
raise even that ; and I knew it was no good
going there without the money. You roust
pi^ before you go to bed at thoso places.
Several times I got into a doorway, to shelter
from the wind and cold, and twice I was
roused bv tJie policeman, for I was so tired
that I fell asleep standing against a shop near
the Bank. What with hunger and cold, I was
in a half-stupid state. I didn't know what to
do : I was far from home and my mother. I
have not liked to let her know how badly I vas
off." [The poor lad's eyes flooded with tears
at the recollection of his parent] ** I thought
I had better steal something, and then at least
I should have a roof over my head. Then I
thought I'd make away with mys^ I cant
say how ; it was a sort of desperation ; and I
was so stupid with cold and want, thtU I can
hardly remember what I thought All I
wanted was to be allowed to sit down en some
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOH,
498
dooTiitep and die ; but the police did not allow
this. In the daytime I went up and lay about
the parks most part of the day, but I couldn't
sleep then ; I hardly know why, but I'd been so
\on\i without food, that I coulchii't rest I have
purposely kept fix>m writing to my mother.
It would break her heart to know my suffer-
ings. She has been a widow this ten years
past She keeps a lodging-house xq. Leith,
and has two children to support. I have been
away eight months fix>m her. I came to Lon-
don from a desire to see the place, and thinking
I could better my situation. In Edinburgh, I
had made my IL a- week regularly; often
more, and seldom less. When I came to
London, a woman met me in the street, and
asked me if I wasn't a tailor ? On my replying
in the affirmative, she infoimed me if I would
come and work for her husband, I should have
good wages, and live wiUi her and her husband,
and they would make me quite comfortable.
I didn't know she was the wife of a sweater
at that time. It was a thing I had never heard
of in Edinburgh. After that time, I kept
getting worse and worse off, working day and
night, and all Sunday, and still always being
in debt to them I worked for. Indeed, I
wish I had never left home. If I could get
bock, I'd go in a moment I have worked
early and late, in the hope of accumulating
money enough to take me home again, but I
could not even got out of debt, much more
save, work as hard as I would."
I asked if he would allow me to see some
letters of his mother's, as vouchers for the
truth of his story, and he produced a small
packet, from which, with his permission, I
copied the following :—
" My dear Son, — ^I have this moment re-
ceived your letter. I was happy to hear from
you, and trust you are well. Think of tliat
God who has cni-ried you in safety over the
mighty deep. We oi-e all much as you left us.
I hope you will soon write. Ever believe me,
" Ybur affectionate mother,
This was the first letter written after his
absence from home. Since then his mother,
who is aged and rheumatic (his letters vouched
for this), had been unable to write a line. His
brother, a lad of 16, says, in one of his
letters, —
" I am getting on with my Greek, Hebrew,
Latin, and French, only I am terribly ill off
for want of books. My mother was saying
tliat yon would be bringing me a first-rate
present firom London. I think the most ap-
propriate present you can bring me will be a
Greek and English, or a Hebrew and English
Lexicon; or some Hebrew, Greek, or Latin
book."
A letter from his sister, a girl of 18, ran as
follows : —
" My dear brother,— I take this opportunity
of writing you, as you -wrote tliat you woidd
like to have a letter from me. I am very sorry
you have been ill, but I hope you are keeping
better. I trust also that afiiiction will be the
means of leading you only more closely to the
only true source of happiness. Oh, my dear
brother, yon are still young, and God has told
us in His word, that those who seek Him
early shall find Him. My dear brother, we
get many a sad and solemn warning to prepare
to meet our God : and oh ! my dear brother,
' what is a man profited, if he shall gain the
whole world, and lose his own soul ?' "
The last letter was dated the 5th of Decem-
ber last, and from his brother :—
"We received your kind letter," it ran,
'* this instant, and we hasten to answer it
It has given my mother and me great relief to
hear fi*om you, as my mother and I were very
miserable about you, thinking you were ^11.
We trust you will take care of yourself, and
not get any more cold. We hope you will be
able to write on receipt of tliis, and let us
know how you are, and when we may expect
you home, as we have daily expected you .since
the month of October."
These letters were shown to me at my re-
quest, and not produced by the young man
himself, so that it was evident they were kept
by the youth with no view of being used by
him as a means of inducing charity ; indeed,
the whole manner of the young man was such
as entirely precluded suspicion. On my asking
whether he had any other credentials as to.
character, he showed mo a letter from a Scotch
minister, stating that " he had been under his
charge, and that ft'om his conduct he had
been led to form a favourable opinion of his
talents and moral character ; and that he be-
lieved him to be a desening, industrious
young man."
Of the class of distressed tradesmen seeking
shelter at this asylum, the two following may
be taken as fair types. One was a bankrupt
lineudraper, and appeared in a most destitute
state. When he spoke of his children, his
eyes flooded with tears : —
*'I have been in business in the linen-
drapery line — that's five years ago. I had
about 600/. worth of stodc at first starting, and
used to take about 65/. every week. My esta-
blishment was in a country village in Essex.
I went on medium well for the first two or
three years, but the alteration of the poor-
laws and the reduction of the agricultural
labourers' wages destroyed my business. My
customers were almost all among the working
classes. I had dealings with a few farmers,
of whom I took butter, and cheese, and eggs,
in exchange for my goods. When the poor*
[laws were altered, the out -door relief was
424
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
stopped, and the paupers compelled to go
insido the house. Before that, a good part of
tlio money given to the poor used to be ex-
pended at my shop. The overseers used to
ttave tickets for flannels, blankets, and shirt-
ings, and other goods ; with these they used
to send the paupers to my house. I used to
take full 8/. or 10/. a-week in tliis manner ; so
that when the poor-laws were altered, and the
previous system discontinued, I suffered ma-
terially. Besides, the wages of the agrirul-
tural labourers being lowered, left them less
money to lay out with me. On a market-day
they were my chief customers. I would trust
them one week under the other, and give thcni
credit for In. or 10«., if they wanted it After
their wages came down, they hadn't the means
of laying out a sixpence with me ; and where
I had i^een taking OA/. a-week, my receipts
dwindled to 80/. I had been in the habit of
keeping two shopmen before, but after the
reduction I was obUged to come down to one.
Then the competition of the large houses in
other towns was more than I could stand
against. Having a larger capital, they could
buy cheaper, and afford to take a less profit,
and so of course they could sell much cheaper
than I could. Then, to try and keep pace
with my neighboui's, I endeavoured to extend
my capital by means of accommodation bills,
but the interest I had to pay on these was so
loiige, and my profits so little, that it soon be-
came impossible for mo to meet the claims
upon me. I was mode a bankrupt. My debts
at the time were 000/. This is about six
years ago. After that I took a public-house.
Some property was left me. I came into
about 1000/.; part of this went to my creditors,
and I superseded my bankruptcy. With the
rest I determined upon starting in the pub-
lican line. I kept at this for about ten montlis,
but I could do nothing with it. There was no
custom to the house. I had been deceived
into taking it. By the time I got out of it all
my money was pone. After that I got a job
as a referee at the time of the railway mania,
and when that was over, I got appointed as a
policeman on the Eastern Union line. There
I remained two years and upwards, but then
they began reducing their establishment, both
in men and in wages. I was among the men
who were turned off. Since that time, which
is now two years this Christmas, I have had
no constant employment Occasionally I have
got a little law- writing to do; sometimes I
liave got a job as under- waiter at a tavern.
After 1 left the waiter's place, I got to be very
badly off. I had a decent suit of clothes to
my back up to that time, but then I became
so reduced, I was obliged to go and live in a
low lodging-house in WhitechapeL I was
enabled to get along somehow ; I know many
fi-iends, and they gave me a litUe money now
and then. But at last I had exhausted these.
I could get nothing to do of any kind. I have
bePH to Shorcditch station to try to pick up
a few pence at carrying parcels, bat there
were so many there that I could not get a
crust that way. I was obliged to pawn gar-
ment after garment to pay for my food and
lodgmg ; and when they were all gone, I was
wholly destitute. I couldnt even raise two-
]>ence for a night's lodging, so I came hero and
asked for a ticket My wife is dead. 1 have
three children ; but I would rather you would
not say anything about them, if you please."
1 assured the man that his name should
not be printed, and he then consented to his
children being mentioned.
'* The age of toy eldest child is fourteen, and
my yoimgest nine. Tliey do not know of the
destitution of their father. They are staying
with one of my relations, who has supported
them since my failure. I wouldn't have them
know of my state on any account None of
my family are aware of my misery. My eldest
cbuld is a girl, and it would break her heart to
know where 1 am, and see tlie state of distress
I am in. My boy, I think, would never get
over it. He is eleven years old. I have tried
to get work at carrying placard-boards about
but I can't My clothes are now too bad for
me to do anytliing else. I write a good hand,
and would do anything, I don't care what, to
earn a few pence. I can get a good character
from every place I have been in.**
The other tradesman's story was as fd-
lows : —
'' I am now thirty-three, and am acquainted
with the grocery trade, both as master and as-
sistant I served a five-years' apprenticeship
in a town in Berkshire. The very late boorH
and tlie constant confinement made mefipel
my apprenticeship a ' state of slavery. The
other apprentices used to say they felt it so
likewise. During ray apprenticeship I consi-
der that I never learnt my trade properly. I
knew as much at the year's end as at the fire
years' end. My father gave my master filly
pounds premium; the same premium, or
more, was paid with tlie others. One, the son
of a gentleman at , paid as' much as ^ghty
pounds. My master made an excellent thing
of his apprentices. Nearly all the grocers iu
the part of Berkshire I'm acquainted with
do the some. My master was a severe man to
us, in respect of keeping us in the house, and
making us attend the Methodist Chapel twice,
and sometimes thrice, every Sunday. We had
pi-ayers night and morning. I attribute my
misfortunes to this apprenticeship, becansc
there was a great discrepancy between profes-
sion and practice in the house ; so there could
be no respect in the young men for their em-
ployer, and they grew careless. He carried on
his business in a way to inspire anything else
than respect On the cheesemongery aide we
were always blamed if we didn't keep the scale
well wetted, so as to make it heavier on one
side than tlie otlier — ^I mean the side of the
scale where the butter was put — ^that was filled
or partly filled with water, under pretence of
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOS.
425
preventiiig the butter sticking, and bo the cus-
tomer was wronged half an ounce in every
purchase. With regard to the bacon, which,
on account of competition, we had to sell
cheap— at no profit sometimes— he used to say
to us, * You must make the ounces pay ; ' that
is, we were expected to add two or more
ounces, calculating on what the customer
would put up with, to every six odd ounces in
the weight of a piece. For instance, if a hock
of bacon weighed six pounds seven ounces, at
4.^d. per pound, we were to chai'ge 2s. 3rf. for
the six poimds, and (if possible ) adding two
ounces to the seven which was the actual
weight, charge each ounce a halfpenny, so get-
ting 2«. 7^d. instead of 2s, ftrf. This is a com-
mon practice in all the cheap shops I am ac-
quainted with. With his sugars and teas, in-
ferior sorts were mixed. In grinding pepper,
a quantity of rice was used, it all being ground
together. Mustard was adulterated by the
manufacturers, if the price given showed that
the adulterated stuff was wanted. The lowest
priced coffee was always half cliiccory, the
second quality one-third chiccory; the best
was one pound of chiccory to three poimds of
coffee, or one-fourth. We had it either in
chiccory-nibs, which is the root of the endive
cultivated in Yorkshire, Prussia, &c., or else a
spurious chiccory powdered, twopence per
pound cheaper, the principal ingredient being
pai*snips and carrots cut in small pieces, and
roasted like chiccory. A quart of water is the
allowance to every twenty-eight pounds of to-
bacco. We had to keep pulling it, so as to
keep it loose, for if left to lie long it would
mould, and get a very unpleasant smell. In
weighing sugar, some was always spilt loose
in the scale opjiosito the weight, which re-
mains in the scale, so that every pound or so is
a quarter of on ounce short This is the prac-
tice only in cutting shops. Often enough,
after we have been doing all these rogueries,
we were called into prayers. In my next
situation, with an honourable tradesman in
Yorkshire, I found I had to learn my business
over again, so as to CArry it on fairly. In two
or three years I went into business in the town
where I was apprenticed ; but I had been sub-
jected to such close confinement, and so many
unnecessary restrictions, without any oppor-
tunity of improving by reading, that when I
was my own master, and in possession of
money, and on the first taste of freedom, I
squandered my money foolishly and extrava-
gantly, and that brought me into difiiculties.
I was 150/. deficient to meet my liabili-
ties, and my friends advanced that sum,
I undertaking to be more attentive to busi-
ness. After that, a man started as a
gi-ocer in the same street, in the 'cutting'
line, and I had to compete with him, and he
sold his sugar a half^nny a pound less than
it cost, and I was obliged to do the same. The
preparing of the sugar for the market-day is a
country grocer's week's work, and all at a loss.
That's the ruin of many a grocer. My profits
dwindled year by year, though I stuck very
close to business ; and in eighteen months I
gave it up. By that time other ' cutting '
shops were opened — none have done any
good. I was about 100/. bad, which my
fi'iends arranged to pay by instalments.
After that I hawked tea. I did no good in
that. The system is to leave it at the work-
ing men's houses, giving a week's credit, the
customers often taking more. Notliing can
be honestly made in that trade. The Scotch-
men in the trade are the only men that can do
any good in it. The chai-ge is six shillings for
what's four shillings in a good shop. About
nine months ago my wife — I had been mar-
ried seven years — was obliged to go and live .
mih her sister, a dressmaker, as I was too
poor to keep her or myself either. I then
came to London, to try for employment of any
kind. I answered advertisements, and there
were always forty or fifty young men after the
same situation. I never got one, except for a
short time at Brentford. I had also a few
days' work at bill deliver}' — that is, grocers'
circulars. I was at last so reduced that I
couldn't pay for my lodgings. Nobody can
describe the misery I felt as I have walked
tlie streets all night, falling asleep as I went
along, and then roused myself up half-frozen,
my limbs aching, and my whole body trem-
bling. Sometimes, if I could find a penny, I
might sit up in a coffe^-shop in HusseU-street,
Oovent- garden, till five in the mohiing, when
I had to roam the streets all day long. Two
days I was without food, and determined to
commit some felony to save me from starva-
tion, when, to my great joy — for God knows
what it saved me from, as I was utterly care-
less what my fate would be — ^I was told of this
refuge by a poor man who had been there,
who found me walking about the Piazzas in
Covent-garden as a place of shelter. I ap-
plied, and was admitted. I don't know how I
can get a place without clothes. I have one
child with my wife, and she supports him and
herself very indifferently by dressmaking."
A soldier's wife, speaking with a strong
Scotch accent, made the following statement.
She had altogether a decent appearance, but
her features — and there were the remains of
prettiness in her look — were sadly pinched.
Her manners were quiet, and her voice low
and agreeable. She looked like one who ha4l
" seen better days,** as the poor of the better
sort not unfrequently say in their destitution,
clinging to the recollection of post comforts.
She wore a very cle-an checked cotton shawl,
and a straw bonnet tolerably entire. The
remainder of her dress was covered by her
shawl, which was folded closely about her,
over a dark cotton gown.
" I was bom twenty miles from Inverness,
(she said), and have been a servant since I
was eleven. I always lived in good places —
the best of places. I nerer was in inferior
Aiao
LOS vow LADOUn ASD THE LOSVOS J'OOM.
Iiliiri'fi. I havo livnd as cook, liousemaitl, or
wTvaiit-of-all-work, in Inv»Tnt;KS, Elgin, and
Tttin, a]«'(iyH maintaining a good charact4>r.
I Uiank (iod for tliat. In all my distress I've
dono nothing wrong, but I didn't know what
diMtri Ks wos when in senice. I contiuurnl in
ftenico until I married ; but I was not able to
ftavH much money, becauso I had to do ull I
could for my mother, who was a very poor
willow, for I lost my father when I was two
y<»arH old. Wages arc very low in Scotland to
what they are in England. In the year 1847
I liv<:?<l in tlio Bcr\'ice of the barrack-master of
Fort C»ef»rgc, twelve miles below Inverness.
Therrj I liecume acciuaintod with my present
husband, a soldier, and I was married to him
in March, 1847, in the chapel at Fort George.
I continued two months in service after my
marriage. My mistress wouldn't let nie away ;
she was very kind to me; so was my master:
they all were. I have a written character
from my mistress." [This, at my request, she
Iinxluced.] ** Two months after, the regiment
eft Fort George for L<ith, and there I lived
with my husband in barracks. It is not so
boil for married persons in the artillery as in
the hue (we were in the artiller>'), in harrac^ks.
In our barrack-rooms no smglo men were
alIow(>.l to sleep where the married people
w«Te accommodated. But there wen^ three or
four married families in our room. I lived
two years in barracks with my husband, in
diffiTfUt ban'ocks. I was very comfortable.
I didn't know what it was to want anything I
ought to liave. My husband was a kind,
Sober man." [This she said very feelingly.]
"His regiment was ordered abroad, to Nova
Scotia. I had no family. Only six soldiers'
wivrs ai-o allowed to go out witli each com-
ptuiy, and there were seventeen married
men in the company to which my husband
b4»long<Hl. It's detennined by lot. An officer
holds the tickets in his cap, and the men
draw them. None of tlie wives are present
It would be too hard a thing for th(»m to see.
My husband drew a liliuik." She continued : —
*' It was a sad Kcene when they embarked
at Woohvich last March. All the wives were
then-, jdl crj'ing and st)bbing, you may depend
upon tliat; and the children, too, and some
of \hv men ; but I couldn't look lauch at them,
and I don't like to see men cry. My husband
was sadly distressetl. I hoped to get out thei*e
and join him, not knowing the passage was so
long anil expensive. 1 hml a little money
then, but that's gone, and I'm bmught to
misiTV. It Would have cost me G/. at that
time to get out, and I couldn't manage that,
so I stayed in London, getting a day's work at
washing when I could, making a veiy poor
living of it ; and I was at lost forced to part
with all my good clothes after my money went ;
and n»y husband, God bless him ! always ;,'ave
me his money to do what I thought best with
it. I usetl to cam a litUe in bamicks witli
my neeiUe, too. I wiis taken ill with cholera '
at the latter end of August. Dear, dear, what
I suffered ! And when I was getting better I
had a second attack, ami that was the way my bit
of money all went I was then quite destitute;
but I core nothing for that, and would care
nothing for anything if I eoold get ont to my
husband, i should be hiqipy then. I should
never bo so happy since I was bom beibre.
It's now a monUi sinco I was entirely out of
halfpence. I can't beg; it would disgrace me
and my husband, and I'd die in the streets
first Last Saturday I hadn't a fortliing. I
hadn't a thing to part with. I had a bed by
the night, at '^d. a-night, not a regular lodging-
house ; but tlie mistress wouldn't trust me no
longer, as I owed hor 2m. Od.^ and for that she
holds clothes wortli far more than that I
heard of this Asylum, and got admitted, or I
must have si)ent the night in the street — them
was nothing else for me; but thank God!
I've been spared that On Christmas day I
had a letter from my husband.**
This she produced. It contained the follow-
ing passage : —
**I am glad this letter only costs you a
penny, as your purse must be getting very
low ; but there is a good time coming, and i
trust in God it will not be long, my deir wife,
i hope you will have got a good place before
this r.iches you. I am dowing all in ray power
to help you. i trust in good in 8 montlis more,
if you Help me, between us we make it out**
She concluded : —
'• I wouldn't like him to know how boiUy I
am off. He knows I would do nothing wrong:
He wouldn't suspect me ; ho never would. He
knows me too well. I have no clothes bnt
what are detained for *2m, 6<f., and what I have
on. I have on just this shawl and an old
cotton gown, but it's not broke, and my under-
clothing. AH my wish is to get out to my hus-
band. I care for nothing else in this world.**
Next comes the tale of a young girl who
worked at velvet embossing. She was cornel},
and modestly spoken. By her attire it would
have been diflicult to have told that she vms
so utterly destitute as I afterwards discovered.
She was scrupulously neat and clean in her
dress; indeed it was evident oven from her
appearance, that she belonged to a better class
than the ordinary inmates of the Asylum. As
she sat alone in Uie long, unocisupied wards,
she sighed heavily, and her eyes were fixed
continually on the ground. Her voice was
very sorrowful. Her narrative was as fol-
lows : —
** I have been out of work for a very long
while, for full tliree months now, and all the
summer I was only on and off. I mosUy had
my work given out to me. It was in pieces of
100 yards, and sometimes less, and I was paid
so much for the dozen yiuxls. I generally had
3|(/., and sometimes l^W., according to what it
was ; 3^. was the highest price that I had. I
could, if I rose at five in the morning, and sat
up till twelve, earn between 1m, and Is. 3i^ in
LONDON LABOUR Ji^'D TITS LONDON POOR.
idT
ft day. I had to cut the velvet after it had
hccn embossed. I could, if a diamond
pattern, do five dozen yards in a-day, and if a
h^af pattern, I could only do three dozen and
a-holf. I couldn't get enough of it to do, even
nt these prices. Sometimes I was two days in
the week without work, and sometimes I had
work for only ono day in the week. They I
wanted, too, to reduce the 1 \d. <Uamond work
to \d. the dozen yards ; and so they would have
done, only the work got so slack that we had
to leave it altogether. That is now seven
weeks ogo. Before tliat, I did get a little to
do, though it was very little, and since then I
have called almost every week at the ware-
house, but they have put mo off, telling mo to
come in a fortnight or a week's time. 1 never
kept ncquaintance with any of the other young
women working at the warehouse, but 1 dare
say about twenty. five were thrown out of work
at the pnme time as I was. Sometimes I made
05. a-wc(^k, and sometimes only 3s., and for
tlie last fortnight I got Is. Crf. a-week, and out
of that I had my own candles to find, and
Is. Orf. a-week to pay for my lodgings. After I
lost my work, I made away with what Httle
clotlics I had, and now I liavo got nothing but
what I stand upright in.'' [Ifhe teai*» were
pouring down the cheeks of the poor girl; she
was many minutes afterwards before she could
ouswer my questions, from sobbing.] "1
can't help crjing." she sjiid, " when 1 think
how destitute I am. Oh, yes, indeed, [slie
cried through her sobs,] I have been a good
girl in all my trials. I might have been better
off if I had chosen to take to that Ufe. I need
not have been here if I had cliosen to part
with my character. 1 don't know what my
father was. I l)€lieve ho was a clerk in one of
the foreign confectioner}' houses. He deserted
my mother two months before I was bom. I
don't know whether he is dead or not, for I
never set eyes on him. K he is ahve, he is
very well off. I know this from my aunt, who
was told by one of his fellow-clerks that he
had nianied a woman of property and gone
abroad. He was disappointed with my moUier.
He expected to have had a good bit of money
with her; but after she married him, her father
wouldn't notice her. My mother died when I
was a week old, so I do not recollect either of
my parents. When my aimt, who was his own
sister, wrote to him about myself, my brother
and sister, he sent word back that the children
might go to the workhouse. But my aimt took
pity on us, and brought us all up. She had a
little property of her own. She gave us a
decent education, as far as lay in her power.
My brother she put to sea. ^ly father's
brother was a captain, and he took my brother
with him. The firet voyage he went (he was
fourteen), a part of the rigging fell on him and
the first mate, and they were both killed on
the spot. My sister went as lady's-maid to
Lady •, and went abroad witli her, now
eighteen montlis ago, and I have never Iicard
of her since. The aunt who brought mo up
is dead now. She was carried off two years
and three months ago. If she had lived I
should never have wanted a friend. I remained
with her up to the time of her death, and waa
very happy before that time. After that I
found it very hard ior a poor lone girl like
me to get an honest liring. I have been
struggling on ever since, parting with my
clotlies, and often going for two days without
food. I lived upon Uie remainder of my
clothes for some little time after I was thrown
entirely out of work ; but at last I got a fort-
night in debt at my lodgings, and tliey made
me leave ; that's a week and three days ago
now. Then I had nowhere but the streets to
lay my head. I walked about for three days
and nights without rest. I went into a chapel.
I went there to sit down and pray ; but I was
too tired to offer up any prayers, for I fell
asleep. I had been two nights and three days
in the streets before this, and all I had during
that time was a penny loaf, and that I was
obliged to beg for. On the day that I was
walking about, it thawed in the morning, and
froze very hard at night. My shoes were
very bad, and let in water ; and as the night
came on, my stockings froze to my feet Even
now I am suffering from the cold of those
nights. It is as much as I can do to bend my
limbs at present I have been in the Asylum
a week, and to-night is my last night here. I
have nowhere to go, and what will become of
me the Lord God only knows." [Again she
burst out crying most piteously.] " My things
are not fit to go into any respectable workroom,
and they won't take me into a lodging either,
unless I've got clothes. I would rather mako
away wth myself than lose my character."
[As she raised her hand to wipe away her
tears, I saw that her arms were bare ; and on
her moving the old black mantle that covered
her shoulders,! obsen-ed that her gown was so
ragged Uiat the body was almost gone from it,
and it had no sleeves.] "I shouldn't have
kept this," she said, "if I could have made
away with it" She said that she hod no friend
in the world to help her, but that she would
hke much to emigrate.
I afterwards inquired at the house at which
this poor creature had lodged, as to whether
she had always conducted herself with pro-
priety while living there. To bo candid, I
could hardly believe that any person could turn
a young friendless girl into the streets because
she owed two weeks' rent ; though the girl ap-
peared too simple and truthfid to fabricate
such a statement. On inquiry, I found her
story true from the beginning to the end.
The landlady, an Irishwoman, acknowledged
that the girl was in her debt but 3s. ; that she
had lodged with her for several months, and
always paid her regularly when she had money ;
but slie couldn't afford, she said, to keep
people for nothing. The girl had been a good,
well-behaved, modest girl with her.
4*28
LONVON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOB,
Descbiption of the Asylum for the
Houseless.
The Asylum for tho Houseless Poor of Lon-
don is opened only when the thermometer
reaohcM fVeezing-point, and offers nothing but
dry bread and warm shelter to such as avail
themselves of its charity.
To this place swarm, as the bitter winter's
night comes on, some half- thousand penniless
and homeless wanderers. The poverty-stricken
from every quarter of tlie globe are found
within its wards ; from the haggard American
seaman to the lank Polish refugee, the pale
German " out-wanderer," the tearif\il black sea-
cook, the shivering Lascar crossing- sweeper,
the helpless Chinese beggar, and the half-
torpid Italian organ-boy. It is, indeed, A
ragged congress of nations — a convocation of
squalor and misery — nf destitution, degrada-
tion, and suffering, from all the comers of tho
earth.
Nearly every shade and grade of misery,
misfortune, vice, and even guilt, are to be
found in the place ; for characters are not de-
manded previous to admission, want being
tho sole qualification required of the applicants.
The Asylum for the Houseless is at once the
beggar's hotel, the tramp's town-house, the
outcast's haven of refAge — the last dwelling,
indeed, on the road to ruin. '
It is impossible to mistake the Asylum if
you go there at dark, just as the lamp in the
wire cage over the entrnnce-door is being
lighted. This is the hour for opening ; and
ranged along tho kerb is a kind of ragged
regiment, drawn up foiu- deep, and stretching
far up and down the narrow lane, until the
crowd is like a hedge to Uio roadway. No-
where in the world can a similar sight be wit-
nessed.
It is a terrible thing, indeed, to look down
u^on that squalid crowd from one of the upper
windows of the institution. There they stand
shivering in the snow, with their thin, cob-
webby garments hanging in tatters about them.
Many are without shirts ; with their bare skin
showing througli the rents and gaps of tlieir
clothes, like tho hide of a dog with the mange.
Some have their greasy coats and trousers tied
round their wrists and ankles with string, to
prevent the piercing wind from blowing up
them. A few are without shoes; and these
keep one foot only to the ground, while the
bare flesh that has had to tramp through the
snow is blue and livid-looking as half- cooked
meat.
It is a sullenly silent crowd, without any of
f he riot and rude frolic which generally ensue
upon any gathering in the London streets ;
for the only sounds heard are the squealing of
the beggar infants, or tho wrangling of the
vagrant boys for the front ranks, together with
a continued succession of hoarse coughs, that
seem to answer each other like the bleating of
a flock of sheep.
To each person is given half-a-pound of the
best bread on coming in at night, and a like
quantity on going out in the morning ; and
children, even if they be at the breast, have
the same, which goes to swell the mother's
allowance. A clerk enters in a thick ledger
the name, age, trade, and place of birth of the
applicants, as well as where they slept the
night before.
As the eye glances down the column of tho
register, indicating where each applicant has
passed the previous night, it is stiurtled to find
how often the clerk has had to write down,
"in the streets;" so that "ditto," "ditto,"
continually repeated under the same head,
sounded as on ideal chorus of terrible want in
the mind's ear.
Tho sleeping - wards at the Asylum are
utterly unlike all preconceived notions of a
dormitory. There is not a bedstead to be
seen, nor is even so much as a sheet or
blanket visible. The ward itself is a long,
bare, whitewashed apartment, with square
post-like pillars supporting the flat -beamed
roof, and reminding the visitor of a lai^e un-
occupied store-room — such as are occasionally
seen in the neighbourhood of Thames-street
and the Docks. Along the floor are ranged
what appear at first sight to be endless rows
of large empty orange chests, packed closely
side by side, so that Uie boards are divided off
into somo two himdred shallow tanpit-like
comportments. These are the berths, or, to
speak technically, tho " bunks " of the insti-
tution. In each of them is a black mattress,
made of some shiny waterproof material, like
varpauling stuffed with straw. At the head of
every bunk, hanging against the wall, is a
leather — a big "basil" covering — that looks
more like a wine-cooper's apron than a counter-
pane. These " basUs " are used as coverlids,
not only because they are strong and dnnble,
but for a more cogent reason — they do not
retain vermin.
Around the fierce stove, in the centre of the
ward, there is generally gathered a group of
the houseless wanderers, the crimson rays
tinting tho cluster of haggard faces with a
briglit lurid light that colours the skin as red
as wino. One and all are stretching forth
their hands, as if to let the delicious heat soak
into their half-numbed limbs. They seem
positively gi'eody of the warmth, drawing up
their sleeves and trousers so that their naked
legs and arms may present a larger surfkoe to
the fire.
Not a laugh nor sound is heard, but the
men stand still, munching their bread, their
teeth champing like horses in a manger.
One poor w^retch, at tho time of my visit,
hod been allowed to sit on a form inside
the railings round the stove, for he had
the ague; and there he crouched, with his
legs near as a roasting-joint to the burning
LOS DOS L J noun ASD THE LONDON FOOIt,
4^9
coaIs, as if he wen* trying lo thaw his very
morrow.
Then how fnorful it is to hear the continued
ooaghin<; of the wretched innmtes ! It seems
to pa&s round the room from one to another,
now sharp and hoarse as a bark, then deep and
hollow as a lowing, or — with the old — feeble
and trembling as a blent.
In an hour after the opening the men have
quitted the warm fire and crei)t one after
aijotlier to their berths where tliey lie rolled
round in their leathers — the rows of tightly,
bound figures, brown and stitf as mummies,
snj^gestinK the iilea of some large catacomb.
The stillness is brokt»n only by the snoring
of the sounder sleepers and the coughing of Uie
more restless.
It is a mai-vellously pathetic scene.
Here is a ht-rd of the most wretched and
friendless people in the world, lying down
close to the earth as sh».'ep; here are some
two centuries of outcasts, whose days are an
unvurying round of sutlering, enjoying the
only moments when they are free from pain
and care — life being to them but one long
painful operation as it were, and sleep the
chloroform which, for the time being, renders
thcni insensible.
The sight sets the mind spcrulnting on the
beggars' and the outcasts' dr«;ams. The ship's
company, staniug at the North Pole, dreamt,
every man of them, each niglit, of feasting ;
and are those who compose this miserable,
frozen-out beggar crew, now regaling them-
selves, in their yleep, with visions of imaginary
banquets? — are they smacking their mental
lips over ideal beef and pudding? Is that
poor wTetch yonder, whose rheumatic limbs
rack him each step he takes — is /w tripping
over grei^n fi«*lds witli an elastic and joyous
bound, tliat in his wnking moments he can
never know again ? Po that man's restless-
ne-is and heavy moaning como from nigJitmare
tenors of ixdicemcn and treadwheels? — and
which among those runaway boys is fancying
that he is back homo again, with his mother
antl sisters weepinj^ on his n(?ck?
The next moment the thoughts shift, and
the heart is overcome with a sense of the vast
heap of social refuse— the mere human stivet-
Rwoe]>inKs — the gieat living mixen — that is
destined, as soon as the spring returns, to be
strewn far and near over tlie land, and serve
as manure to the future crime-crops of the
country.
Then come the self-congratulations and the
self-questionings ! and as a man, sound in
health and limb, walking through a hos|)ital,
thanks God that he has been spared the bodily
ailments, the mere sight of which sickens him,
so in this refuge for the starving and the
homeless, the first instinct of the well-to-do
visitor is to breathe a thanksgiving (like the
Pharisee in the parable) that ** he is not as
one of these."
But the vain coneeit has scaroely risen to
the tongue before the better nature whwpers
in the mind's ear, " By what special virtue of
yoiur own are you different from them ? How
comes it that you are well clothed and well
fed, whilst so many go naked and hungry?-
And if you in your arrogance, ignoring all the
accidents that have helped to build up your
wordly prosperity, assert that you have been
the ** architect of your own fortune," who, let
us ask, gave you the genius or energy for the
work ?
Then get down from your moral stilts, and
confess it honestly to yourself, that you ore
what you are by that inscrutable grace which
decreed your birthplace to be a mansion or a
cottage rather than a "padding-ken," or which
grantetl you brains and strength, instead of
sending you into the world, like many of these,
a cripple or an itliot
It is hard for smug- faced respectability to
acknowledge these dirt-caked, erring wretches
as brothers, and yet, if from those to whom
little is given little is expected, surely, after
the atonement of their long suffering, they
will make as good angels as Uie best of us.
CnAr.iTiEs A^'D Sums oiven' to tiie Poob.
AcconPiNQ to the last Report of the Poor-
law Commissioners, the paupers receiving in-
and out-door relief was, in 1848, no less than
1 ,870,000 and odd. The number of criminals
in the same year was 30,000 and odd. In
184.4, the number of lunatics in county
asjlmns way 4000 and odd ; while according
to the Occupation Abstract of the returns of
the population there were, in 1841, upwards
of 500U almspeoplc, lUOO beggars, and 21,000
pensioners : these formed into one sum, give
us no less than two millions and a quarter
individuals who pass their time without apply-
ing to any gainful occupation, and conse-
quently live in a state of inactivity and vice upon
the income of the remainder of the population.
By the above computation, therefore, we see
that out of a total of l(;.Oi)0,0<)0 souls, one-
seventh, or 14 percent of the whole, continue
their existence either by pauperism, men-
dicancy, or crime. Now the cost of this im-
mense ma'is of vice and want is even more
api)alling than the number of indiriduals sub-
sisting in such utter dejrradation. The total
amount of money levied in 1848 for the relief
of England and Wales was seven milhons four
hundred thousand pounds ; but, exclusive of
this amoimt, the magnitude of the sum that
we give voluntarily towards the support and
education of the poor classes is unparalleled
in the history of any other nation or ony
other time.
According to the summary of the returns
annexed to the voluminous Reports of the
Charity Commissioners, the rent of the land
and other fixed property, together with the
No. LXXIX.
3 U
430
LONUON LABOUR ASD THE LONDON POOR.
interest of iho money left fur charitable pur-
poses ill England and "Wales, amounte to
1,200,(XjO/. a year; and it is believed, by
proi>€r mann;,'ement, tliis return might be
increased to an annual income of at least two
millions of money ; and yet, says Mr. M'Cul-
loch, *' then^ can be no doubt that even tliis
large sum falls far below the amount expended
every year in volimtary donations to charitable
establishments. Nor can any estimate be
formed," he adds, '*of the money given in
charity to individuals; but in the aggregate
c&imot fail to amount to an immense sum.'*
All things considered, therefore, we cannot be
very far from the trutJi, if wo assume that the
sums voluntarily subscribed towards the re-
lief of the poor equal, in the aggregate, the
total amount raised by assessment for the
same purpose; so that it appears that the
well-to-do amongst us expend the vast sum of
fifteen million pounds per annum in mitigating
the miseries of their less fortunate brethren.
But though we give altogether fifteen mil-
lion pounds a year to alleviate the distress of
thoso who want or sufifer, we must remember
that this vast sum expresses not only the
liberal extent of our sympathy, but likewise
the fearful amount of want and suffering, of
excess and luxury, that there must be in the
land, if the poorer classes require fifteen mil-
lions to be added in charity every year to their
agvnregato income, in order to relieve their
pains and privations, and the richer can afford
to have the same immense sum taken from
theirs, and yet scarcely feel the loss, it shows
at once how much the one class must possess
and the other want.
MEETING OF TICKET-OF-LEAVE MEN.
A MEETiNO of Ucket-of-leave men, convened
by Mr. H. Mayhew, was held some time since
at the National Hall, Holbom, with the
Tiew of affording to persons of this class,
who are anxious to lead a reformed life,
an opportunity of stating the difficulties
they have to encounter in their endeavour to
obtain a honest livelihood. About fifty mem-
bers of the body responded to Mr. Mayhew's
invitation. The men were admitted on pre-
senting their tickets- of leave, and were re-
quired on entrance to fill up the columns of
a register, setting forth their ages, their occu-
pations, tlie oflience for which they were last
convicted, their sentences, and the amount of
instruction they had severally received. From
the information thus collected, it appears that
only 3 out of tlie 50 present were above the
ago of 40, the large majority ranging between
18 and 35, the highest ago of all being 08 ;
that they consisted of labourers, hawkers, cos-
tcrmongers, }»lacksmiths, shoemaker^, carpen-
ters, and other handicraftsmen; that their
prc\ious pimishments varied from 2 years to
14 years' transportation ; and that more than
one-half of them had been educated either at
day schools or Simday schcKds. Suspecting
that the men would be unwilling to attend 3
the pohce presented themselves, either in the
hall or at its entrance, Mr. Mayhew took the
precaution to apply beforehand to the Metro-
I>olitAn Commissioners on the. subject. The
authorities at once acceded to the request thus
made to them, and not a solitary constable was
pennitted to overawe the meeting."
jSIr. Mayhew, in opening the proceedings,
said : — " The object of this meeting is three-
fold. In the first place, I wish society to
know more about you as a distinct class;
secondly, I wish the world to understand the
working of the ticket-of-leave system ; and,
thirdly, I wimt to induce society to exert itself
to assist you, and extricate you from your dif-
ficulties. When I first went among you, it
was not very easy for me to make you compre-
hend the purpose I had in riew. You at lirst
fancied that I was a Government spy, or a
person in some way connected with tlie police.
I am none of these, nor am I a clergyman
wishing to convert you to his particnlar creed,
nor a teetotaler anxioas to prove the source
of all evil to be over-indulgence in intoxi-
cating drink ; but I am simply a literary man,
desirous of letting the rich know something
more about the poor. ^Applause.) Some
persons study tlie stars, others study the ani-
mal kingdom, others again direct their re-
searches into the properties of stones, devoting
their whole lives to these partictilar vocationa.
I am the first who has endeavoured to study a
dass of my fellow-creatures whom Providence
has not placed in so fortunate a position as
myself, my desire being to bring the extremes
of society together — ^the poor to the rich, and
the rich to the poor. (Applause.) I wish to
get bodies of men together in a mas^
their influence by that means being mor6
sensibly felt than if they remain iaolMed. I
know you, perhaps, nearly as well as many of
you know yourselves. I have had many of
you in my house with my wife and children,
and to your honour and credit be it said, you
never wronged me of the smallest article, and,
moreover, I never heard a coarse word escape
your lips. I have trusted many of you who
have been long tried by want of food. I have
given you money to get change for me, and
you never yet took advantage of me. This
shows that there is still a spark of good in
each of you. That spark I wish Society to de-
velope, tliat you may be made what idl must
really desire to see you. Sotaie two or three
Sundays ago I was at Pentonville prison
during Divine service. Society believes you
to be hardened in heart and unimpressionable.
Well, I saw some four hundred prisoners there
weeping like children at the melting tale
which the cleiigyman told. He spoke of the
burial of a girl by torchlight, at wluch he offi-
ciated, explaining that Uie reason why the
TICKET-OF-LEAVE MEN.
.P* -e «r
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR,
481
f^eral took place so late was that the &ther
of tlie deceased had to come ahout fifty iniles
to be preseot, and thenco the delay. The old
man's tears, he said, fell like rain on the
coffin.lid; and yet, in his anguish, the bo-
reavc'l parent exclaimed that he preferred to
see his daughter a corpse tlian for her to live
a hfe of infamy in tlio streets. (Sensation.)
This Slid story could not fail to touch a chord
in each of your breasts. But to come to the
ticket- of- leave system. The public generally
beheve that it is a most dangerous thing to set
you t'r«'o under that system. I know this is
one of the most important experiments in con-
nexion with the reformation of offenders that
has ever been tried, and it has worked bettor
than any other of which I have had expe-
riencp. In 1853, the old mode of transporta-
tion was changed, and an Act passed directing
that no person should be sentenced to trans-
jjortation except for fourteen yeai-s or npwords,
and thnt thencefoiward sentence of penul ser-
vitude should bo substituted for transportation
for le-s than fourteen years. At the same
time, a discretionary power was given to
commute sentences of transportation into
t<;rms of penal senitude. Then, for the first
time, was it ordained that it should b;» law-
ful for her ^Injesty, under the seal of her
secretary of state, to grant any convict,
now or hereafter sentenced to transporta-
tion, (»r to the punishment substituted for
it, a license to be at large in the United
Kingdom, or such part thereof as is expressed
in the license, during a portion of his term of
imprisonment. The holder of this license is
not to be imprisoned by reason of Iiis pre-
vious sentence ; but il his license is revoked,
he is to bo apprehended and re-committed.
Since the passing of that Act, and between
September 1853 and December 31, 1855 — a
period of -about two years and a quarter — the
number of convicts released from public works
and prisons has been 8880. To this number
have to be added juveniles from Parkhurst
prison, ^07 ; and convicts from Bermuda and
Gibraltar, 435 : making a total of 4612. Of
this a;^'gregate, 140 have had their licenses re-
voked, and 118 have been sentenced to penal
servitude and imprisonment; making together
5J58 who have had their licenses cancelled out
of the entire 4612. Out of this 258, 27 were
committed for breach of the vagrancy law, 20
for ordinary assaults, 8 for assaults on the
pohce, 6 for breach of the game-laws, 2 for
desertion from the militia, and 20 for misde-
meanour; making together 84, and leaving 174
as the exact number who have rdapsed into
their former course of life. Thus it appears
that only five and a-half per cent of the whole
number of dckets-of-leave granted have been
revoked. Now, considering that the number
of re-committals to prison for England and
Wales averages thirty- three in every himdred
prisoners ; tiiis, I think, is a very favourable
result of the ticket-of-leave experiment Look-
ing at the extreme difficulty of a return to an
honest life, it is almost astonishing that so low
a per-centage as five and a half of the licenses
in all England should have been revoked.
You know that, during your imprisonment,
there are four stages of probation. In certain
prisons you have to do a prescribed amount of
work, for which you receive a certain gratuity.
The shoemakers, for instance, get £iL every
week if they make two and a-half pairs, ^d. for
three pairs, and %d. for four pairs. The tai-
lors get -kd, if they make two suits of prison
garments, ed. for three suits, and 8rf. for four.
The matmakers get 4(i. for thirty-six square
feet of their work, 6rf. fbr forty-five feet, and
8rf. for fifty-four. The cotton-weavers get 4d,
for twenty-four yards, (Sd, for thirty, and Brf.
for thirty-six. The cloth- weavers are paid in
a similar manner. These sums are entered to
yoiu: credit, and pass with you from prison to
jirison tmtil they at last accumulate into an
amount., which is handed over to you under
certain restrictions on leaving. In the second
stage of probation, you receive 6rf. in a«ldition
to the ordinary weekly gratuity ; in the third
stage you receive an addition oi\)d, ; and in the
fourth stage one of 1*. or 1«. 3rf. This sum —
large or small, according to the term of impri-
sonment— ^is placed to your credit on quitting
the prison, and is thus distributed : — 5/. to be
paid immediately on discharge, or by post-office
order on the convict's arrival at his native
place. If the sum is over 5/. and under 8/.
he receives 4/. on Ins discharge, and the
balance at the end of two months ; if over 8/,
and under 12/., half is paid on his discharge
and tlie balance at the end of tliree months ;
if over 12/. and under 20/., 5/. is paid on his
discharge, half the bnlance in two months, and
the remainder in tliree months. In order,
however, to obtain tliis balance, it is necessary
for you to be provided with certificates as to
cliaracter, either from a clergyman, a magis-
trate, or the employer with whom the holder
of tlie license is then at work. The appli-
cants fbr these balances have been 124d in
number up to the 31st December last. Of
these, 1225 have sent in certificates of asatis-
factoiy nature, only 17 having been sent in of
a contrary character — 851 certificates were
furnished by clergymen, 214 by magistrates,
and 177 by employers under whom the per-
sons liberated were engaged. In the 1226
cases above-mentioned, after the expiration of
the prescribed number of months, the mon^
was paid to the applicants. Considering the
difficulty these persons must experience in ob-
taining the certificates required of them, the
figures I have stated are higlily satisfactory as
to the working of the system ; and I cannot,
therefore, understand how society should have
gone 80 fiur astray on this point as it has done.
The public, however, believe ticket-oMeave
men to be very dangerous characters — ^it does
not know the training they undergo while in
prison. A high authority teUs me, that it is
432
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON FOOR.
impossible for a gentleman's son to bo trained
with greoiLT core ai Eton or at any of the other
public ftchools than each of you have been.
When, howev<!r, Society sees two or tlir^e, or
even some half-dozen of yon relapse into your
Ibnner practiof>s, they jump to the conclusion
that the same is the case with you alL They,
in liftct, think that relapses are the rule and
amendment the exception, instead of the Ikct
being quite the other way. This is like the
8elf<4L']usion of the London apprentices, who
fancy tliero are moro wet Sundays in a year
than rainy week-days, simply because they
want to gt-t out on Sundays, and are particu-
larly vexed when the bad W4*ather ki-eps thcni
at home. (LaughUT.) Now I have tried
many experiments at the reformation of crimi-
nals, aiiif one-half of them have foiled. Yet I
am not discouraged ; for I know how difQcult
it is for ni'-n to lay aside their past habits.
Every ollowance ought, therefore, to be made,
because tliey cannot be expectod to become
ani^'els in a moment. The vice of the present
system, in lact, is, that miless a criniin:d sud-
denly become s u pattern man. and at once for-
gets all his old associati/s. Society will have
nonet nf you, and, as a certain gentleman lios
expressed it, * you must all bo shot do^-n, and
thrown into Society's dust-bin.' (Applause.)
A well-known literazy gentleman, who ha*!
movtnl in goo^l society, had a ilmigliter, with
whom he lived at the east end of London. He
wan ratlnT lax, perhaps, in the rearing of Ids
chilli, allowin*; her to do pretty much as she
likcMl. Slio once went to a concert, and got
ocqimiiit'^d with a * mobsman,' who accoin-
pani<Ml her lumie, and at last introduced him-
self to her futlicr as his dauj?liter's suitor.
Being a well -dressed, respectable -looking jkt-
Bon, the father — gooil, easy man! — took a
liking for liim, and nr>t being particular in liis
inquiries as to the lover's course of life, al-
lowed them to marry. After their marriage,
however, the daughter discovered wliat her
husband's pursuits really were. She, of
course, acquainted her father with the fact,
who, in great distress of mind, called his son-
in-law to him, and telling him that he had
never had a stain upon his name or character,
implored him by every argument he coiUd
urge to lead an honest life. The mobsman
promised to comjdy. His fiither-in-law re-
moved him ft'r)ra the neighbourhood in which
ho was stayinj^, and placed him in the service
of n large nulway carrier. In this employ,
having one day to take a parcel to a gentle-
man's house, up-stairs on the mantelpiece he
saw a gold watch. This temptation was too
much for him, md he seized the article and
put it into his pocket. The theft was disco-
Tcrod before the offender had gone any dis-
tance ; the roan was soon arrested, but the
father, by dint of great exertion, got him off^
on returning the watch and commmricating
with its owner before the complaint was made
«t tho police-office. The father again en-
treated his son-in-law to abandon his erfl
courses, but the latter said his old associa-
tions were too strong ibr him, and that he
saw no other resource open for him than to
leave London altogether. The old man ac-
cordingly took him with liim to a reaidonee
on the banks of the Thamcj^ where, at
lengtl), some of his old companions ui^or-
tunately met him, and told lum of a ' crib '
tliey were going to * crack,' and of the heavy
' swag ' they were likely to geL The prodi-
gal's old habits were again too much ibr
him. He accompanied his former associates
in their criminal enterprise, was captured,
and thrown again into prison — his father-in-
law died in a mad-house, and his wife com-
mitted suicide. Thus fcauful, then, are tlie
effects of criminal associations, and therefore
I am only surprised that so small a per-
centage of the ticket-of-leave men have
}-ielded to a relapse. Successful, however,
as the system has thus lor proved, I yet see
a considerable amount of evil in connexion
with it; and this is the reobcm why I Iiave
called you together, hoping that some of tho
tales you have to relate will &cn'e to rouse
the public to a sense of your real position,
and induce thein to stretch forth a baud to
save you from the ruin that on every hand
threatens you. AVhen you come out of pri-
son, destitute as you are of character, there
are only two or three kinds of employment
open to you, ond I thcn:foro wish Society to
institute some association to watch ov<^
you, to give you every x>ossible advice, to
lead you to good courses, and, moreover, to
provide you with the means of getting some
honest livelihood. (Applause.) 1 know that
as n I'hiss you are distinguished mainly by
your hive of a roving life, and that at the
bottom of all your criminal practices lies
your indisposition to follow any settled oc-
cupation. Continuous employment bf a mo-
notonons nature is so irksome to you, that
immediately you engage in it you long to
break away from it. This, I believe, after
long observation of your character, to be true
of the minority of yon ; and you are able to
jndgo if I am right in this conclusion. So-
ciety, however, expects, that if you wish to
better yourselves, you will at once settle
down as steadily as it docs, and immediately
conform to all its notions; but I am satisfied
that if anything effectual is to be done in
the way of reforming you, Society must work
in consonance and not in antagonism with
your natmie. In this connexion it appears
to me that tho great outlet for you is street
trading, where you are allowed to roam at
will unchafed by restndnts not congenial to
your habits and feelings. In such pursuits
a small fund for stodk-mon^ suffices, and
besides, no character is required for those who
engage in them. From the inquiries made by
a gentleman who lately visited the places in
wMeh most of you lire, I find that the greaA
LOSnoN LABOUR ASD THE LONDON POOB,
^ua
majority of you foUow some form or other of
street occupation. Still there is this difficulty
in your way. The public requires its tho-
roughfares to be kept dear of obstruction,
and I know that the police hare been ordered
to drive you away — to make you, as the phrase
is, * move on.' You may fancy that the police
act thus of their own acconl ; but I learn from
communication with tho Commissioners, that
the police have to receive requisitions from
the shopkeepers and other inhabitants to en-
force the Street Act, and are compelled to
comply with them. In one instance a trades-
man living in a street-market, where about
five hundred poor persons were obtaining a
livelihood, complaine<l to the police of tho ob-
struction thus occasioned to his business,
which was of a 'foshionablo' nature. The
consequence was tliat the thoroughfare had to
be cleared, and these five hundred persons
were reduced almost to a state of starvatioi],
and many of them were forced into the work-
house. Now I don't believe that this is right ;
and I am prepared to say to Society, that no
one man in tlTo kingdom sliould have the
power to deprive so large a body of poor i>er-
sons of all means of gaining an honi'st subsist-
ence. (Loud applause.) At the same time,
certtiin regulations must be respected; the
streets even, you will allow, must not be
blocked — (hoar, hear) — there must be a free
passage, and it is necessary to consider wlie-
ther a plan may not bo devised which will
answer both ends. It strikes m(> tliat a cer-
tain number of poor men's markets might be
established very odvantpgoously ; for tlie poor
are so linked together that they wouhl rather
buy of the poor than the rich ; and it is much
to their credit that it is so. If sjjots of ground
for markets of this kind were bought by be-
n<»volent individuals, and a small toll levied on
wlmissiou to them, I am sure the specula-
tion would be profitable to those who cm-
Inirked in it, as well as beneficial to the int^-
ppsts — moral as weU as pecuniar}- — of the
street traders. Connected with these estab-
lishments there ought to be a school for the
children of the tradi-rs, a bank for presen-ing
your money, a cook-shop to prevent 30U from
being obliged to take your meals at the public-
house, together with many other useful ad-
juncts which might bo grouped round the
market Such experiments have been tried
before now. There is tho old Rag-fair at
Houndsditch, where formerly old clothes were
sold in tlio streets. In that case a Jew bought
a piece of land, to which poor traders were ad-
mitted on payment of a half^Mmny per head,
and the project succeeded so admirably that
the owner of tho ground soon become a rich
man. At Paris fdmilar markets have been in-
Btituted, and with success, by M. Delamarre ;
and in the same city there ore also pubUo
Idtehens, where cooked meat can be had at a
eheap rate, so as to keep the poor people out
of the publie-hoasM. Lodging-houses for
such of the men as choose to come to them
would likewise bo a valuable appendage to the
suggested street-markets, but they must be
firee from tlie almost tyrannical supervision
which prevails in the existing model lodging-
houses in London. Whilst so much vexatious
restriction is put upon men's liberties, they
cannot be expected to frequent these places
in the numbers they otherwise would. Lodg-
ing-houses fdr the reception of tickct-of-lcave
men on leaving prison might prevent them
from being thrown loose upon the world until
they have some prospect of a livelihood before
them. I wish Society to take these men by
tho hand — to be lenient and considerate to-
wards them, and not to be annoyed if ono or
two should recede from their good resolutions;
for the experience of the reformatory institu-
tions of London shows that tliere are often
twenty-five per cent of relapses among their
inmates. Therefore, if only five and a-ludf
per cent of you foil in your laudable endea-
vours, as the returns I have quoted show, to
bo tho whol*^ proportion, then I say that you
are a class who ought to be encouraged. By
this means we shall be able to grapple effec-
tually with this great troubh — viz. how to re-
form the gi'cnt bulk of our criminals. Under
these circumstances I have invited you here
to-night, to give you an opportunity of telling
Society what are your difficulties. There is
a gentleraan i)resent who will pubUsh your
grievances all over tho kingdom, and I choi'ge
you all to speak only the ti-uth. You cannot
benefit by any other course, and therefore be
you a check tln^ one upon the other ; and if
any ono departs from tho strict fact, do you
pull him up. Thus you will show tho world
that you have met here with an earaest desire
to bettor yourselves — tlms you will present a
spectacle that will go far to convince Society
that it runs no risk in giving you your libejrty
— and prevail upon it to regard not wholly
without compassion the few members of your
class who, yielding in an evil hour to the try-
ing temptations which beset them, sink un-
happily into their former delinquencies." (Loud
and prolonged opplause.)
The men were then requested to ascend the
platform, and relate their own experience, as
well as to state their views of how their class
could best be assisted. The first to respond to
this invitation was a young man of neat
and comparatively respectable appearance, who
seemed to be known to the rest by tho name
of * Peter,' and who, with great fluency and
considerable propriety of expression, pro-
ceeded to narrate his o^n past career as
follows : —
*• Friends, I hope you will excuse any hesi-
tation or stammering on my part while I
stand in this unusual position. All the edu-
cation I have received has been picked up
in prison — understand thai. As to the diffi-
culties encountered by ticket-of-leave man
I knov nothing, save from my own personal
4U
LONDON LABOUR AND THS LONDON fOOB.
Yoa eaanoi Judge ngopailj of
the inteDtumi of the eomiet* vnlees joo be^
with his caner from the llni time theft he
enters prison. Wdl, yon most knov, theft I
was tranqKMled for sefeo jeers. I wes sent
to BliDbenk, end there pot to the teikcing
business. IVom the ootMt I hsd e greet per-
tielity for hodkM, end I then leemt to reed
end write better then I eonld dabefore. I slso
eoqnind e little grammar end eiithmeticL
simply to improve my mind ; end if mentel
improvement is eny pert of mond improve-
ment, I wss, of course, monJUj imj^oving
"hen then I
I knew more erithmetie then
do now, having lost itkj knowledge in eon-
aeqnence of excessive mdnlgence in intood-
eating liquors. In feet, I got as fiv as the
beginning of algebra— certainly a very ab-
stmse sdence to tackle. After spending
fimrteen months in MUlbank I went to Post-
land, where I had to ulieel barrows from
morning to night I still pemvered, how-
ever, with my books; and the great anxiety
that constantly weighed on my mind wa»,
what wonld become of me when I was liber-
ated. I knew that the woik I was doing
mrald be well done; and I waa fax hi
then than I am now, becaose I feel that tnere
is no breakfiuBt fbr me to-morrow morning
tin I go and thieve it; and that is the simple
truth. (Applanse.) I supposed that if I went
to the Giunilain, who had delivered several
charitable discourses, very much in accordance
with my own feelings, he might assist me.
I therefore stnted my case to him, telling him
that I really wished to become a better member
of society. Ho listened to my tale, and wished
me to sec liim once o-weok, which I did. Bnt
the Chnpluin at this time was the Rev. Mr.
Moran (as wo understood), and when I
wanted books he would not encourage me,
unb^ss I consented to become a commimicant
If I bad done that I should have had more
finvour 8hoA\-n to me, and been provided with
whatever I wished; but not feeling myself
fit for sucli a thing, I therefore refused. I
then waited till a cbanj^e took place, and the
Bov. Mr.Ubridgc, (as we understood), a lover
of science and literature, come — a clergyman
whose system was altogether different, having
none of these Homan Catholic restrictions.
We wore then allowed to think and do as we
liked in regard to religion, and no man was
forced to attend the communion-table unless
he thought himself as fit for it as the Mi-
nister. I applied to the new Chaplain, and told
him I considered my mind to have been much
enlightened. I suppose everybody fancies
Uie same, who knows a Utile, though not
much. When my turn to be liberated ap-
proached they came to mo in my separate
ceU, and I told them there was no chance of
my bettering mys^ unless I could get an
honest living. I said that I must go back to
London, where I had first been transported,
and that the only tibing I expeoted was to
be tnunported agrfn; ftr my bs
would be no neommendslioii lo aw^tlM
police an knenr ma, aoad wherever they anr
me they woold point na out as a tid»t-of.
lecreman. (Ap^aosei.) On my raleaae I re-
eehred 61. 18c I eame to Sorthamplon with
ooe of the i^Been of the estaUidnnent^ who
was kind enon|^ to ask me to take % drop
of bnn4y. Not having bad any i^iritB Ibr
fonr yean pwvions, this little got into my
head, and having drank another i^aaa or two
I was intoadeated, andl spent aU my mooey
that ni^t — yea, and got lo^ed Jsp into the
bargain. (Lraghter.) If I £d noft qnite
^end aU my mon^ mysell^ somebodty dse
helped me to spend it I eame to London
withoat a fiuthing. I hadnt a ikieod hi the
woild, and even aft preaent,if I want n meal,
I have no one to say * Here it is ibr yon.'
What is a man in snch a case, being without
woEk,todo? Ishetostarver W^ I wore
oat two pairs of ahoes, walking the streets
for three months together, looking for a aitaa-
tion, but an in vam; and4 beeame aa ema-
ciated as this post, (pointing to the pillar of
the lamp on the plallbim,) having had no-
thing b^er than a bit of bread and a hening
to eat, and not one oonee of animal Ibod
during an that period. I had a little pridcL
which kept me Inom begging. An the good
feelings engendered in prison passod away.
I returned to my old oompamons, with whom
I went for about two months, when I was
at length caught, and received another twelve-
month's imprisonment, which expired only last
Monday fortnight. During the two months I
was with my old companions I got a good
living — I could always make my 5/. or 6/.
a-week by practices which I «iid not like,
but which I was driven to adopt, bec-ause the
public would not let me earn 1/. honestly.
Since, however, I received the card of ad-
mission to this meeting, I have not put my
hand to a dishonest act, and if the promise it
holds out is ftilfilled I never wiU. I have
little more to say. I attended here to-night
in the hope of reaping some permanent be-
nefit, and also to encourage those who, like
myself, wish to become honest members of
society. (Applause.) I trust the benevolent
gentleman who has so humanely interested
himself in this cause will be successful in his
exertions on behalf of a body of unfortunate
and persecuted beings, who, I should say,
are more knocked about by the police, and
more discouraged by the opinions of the pub-
lic at largo, than any other class in the United
Kingdom. (Applause.) May Gkxl and right
reason direct this movement, and bring it to
a speedy and prosperous issue." (Loud cheers
greeted "Peter," as he descended from the
" tribune.")
The next spokesman was a thin-faced and
diminutive, but shrewd-looking oostermonger,
of about twenty-five years of age, and tidier
in appearance than many of ms dass, who
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
43d
said : — " Friends, I am only a little one, and
yoa can't expect much firom me; indeed,
* Peter ' hasn't left me mnch to say. I will,
however, begin at the beginning. At the age
of ten I was left without father or mother,
and others here could say the same. I was
taught to get a living by selling oranges in
the streets, and I kept at that for twelve
months. I was afterwards induced to go along
with a few Westminster boys, who went about
thieving ; and I had nobody to look after me.
Having no friend, I neverUieless always got
a good * lift' from the police. I was soon
anested, and at Newgate received seven years'
transportation. I spent three years and seven
montiis at the Isle of Wight, and eleven
months nt Portsmouth. I would not have
been kept so long at the Isle of Wight if I had
been religious; but as I could not act the
hypocrite I was obliged to give up this re-
ligion. During this time I never took the
sacrament, as they wanted me to do. Well,
I gets my liberty, and I had several poimds
put into my hands when I left. I came to
London-bridge station, and thought it was the
Waterloo station, and fancying I was near
Westminster, I looked about for the Victoria
Theatre. A chap then said to me, * You had
better not be seen in those clothes.* I after-
TtnrJs changed my dress and sold the other
clothes. I soon found myself with only about
three half-crowns in my pocket My only friend
was a cousin, who was engaged in buying hare-
skins and rabbit-skins about the streets, and
he recommended me to do the same. This was
in the winter time, and I hardly knew one
kind of skin from another. However, X did
pretty well at this for two or three weeks;
when, one day, as I was walking with a sack
of skins upon my back through Tothill-street,
Westminster, two policemen came up to me,
and demanded to look into my bag. Rather
than consent to this I went to the Police
Court along with them. "When I got there
a policeman said to the inspector, that I was
a ' ticket- of-leave,' and had something in my
sack. I insisted on seeing the magistrate,
and the inspector brought me to him, but
instead of allowing me to speak to his wor<
ship, he spoke first, saying that I was very
violent and saucy, and a • ticket-of-leave.' In-
stead of hearing what I had to say under these
circumstances, the magistrate, too, burst out,
* Oh, you are an insolent fellow, and a dis-
grace to society; if the Secretary of State
knew of your doings, he would banish you.'
And his worship, also muttering something
about sending me to *quod' for contempt of
court, I thought it better to * hook it* During
two years and a-half of my term at the Isle of
Wight, having learnt something of shoe-
ma^g, I now travelled down to Northamp.
ton, but could get no work becanse I had no
tools. Even what I did know of the trade
was not enough to enable me to get a living
by it I.then went on to Derby, and was near
starving. I had no lodging. I was not quite
so proud as 'Peter,' for I went up to a
gentleman and told him the strength of it I
said, I am a * ticket-of-leave.' He hardly un-
derstood me, but I tried to explain it to him,
and he gave me a shilling. With this aid I
got my shirt washed, put myself to rights,
polished my boots, and up I goes to a
magistrate to see what he would say about it
I told him I wanted to go to London, and
could not walk all the way. This magistrate
can teU whether I am now speaking the truth.
I got an interview with him at Derby, and
told him I was a ticket-of-leave man. He
would scarcely believe me, and imagined ra-
ther that I was a returned convict The
pohce jeering me, said, * How well polished
his boots are ! but we think him an impostor.'
So, with no other help than the shilling I
had obtained, I trudged along in my misery
imtil, with the worms and maggots gnawing
my belly, I reached London. Here my cousin
got me into the < market' again, and I married
last Christmas twelvemonth, and have one
child. I am now just managing to * crack
an honest crust ; ' and while I can do that I
will never thieve more. (Applause.) I am
not much of a talker, therefore I can only
hope that the kind gentleman who has called
us together will succeed in his praiseworthy
endeavours to secure fair-play to our ill-used
class. I have nothing more to say." (Loud
cheers.)
The third speaker was a stonemason, of
about thirty, and of a honest and industrious
aspect, who said: — " My friends, I have but
little to say regarding myself. I was sent
away from Newgate to Wakefield in 1851, and
put to work. As to gratuity money given
to convicts, certainly none was allowed at
Wakefield while I was there. As to our treat-
ment there and at other places, I can say that
I never had a bit of sweet meat all the time
I was at Wakefield. I never had anything
but mince-meat chopped up, always green,
and others can testify to the same thing.
One man got three days o£ bread and water
for complaining of this. After staying thir-
teen months at Wakefield I went to Ports-
mouth, where X remained about three years
and a half, during which time I certainly
worked hard. There the treatment of the
men differs greatly, according to their con-
duct A man who behaves well is treated well;
but those of a volatile spirit are treated badly.
For myself I never had a report made against
me all the time I was there, and I obtained
my liberty under ticket-of-leave, although I
was sentenced to ten years' imprisonment, at
the end of four years and four months. A
few others, who came later than I did, were
fortunate enough to get their freedom about
the same time. I was not jealous about that,
but was glad to get away myself. I had a
mother and sister to go to ; end though my
sister was in employment, I did not cost them
il;g
hOXDOS LAHUUn AND THE LONDON POOR.
anything. I ffot work at my own trade, and
C'Xfieriencod few of the hardships which most
of my class do when first liberated. I know one
poor man who ssid this meeting was the last
place that he would come to, as it would
expose him. lie has worked five weeks for n
person in Oray's-Inn-lane. lie had ham in
f?ood circumstanct?8, was a clerk, and under
tlie ere nf a minister. He haul to sleep in a
place' where the Termia erawled over his bod,
and he had to get up in the night and remore
his clothes to keep them clean. For the tiro
weeks he has been at woric he has scarcely
had the barest necessaries of subsistence. I
have been to see this man e\'cry Sunday, and
can safely say that he has not had sixpence
in his pocket ever since he has been out of
priMon. He was engaged at iiro-work making,
but this trade becoming slack after the 5th
of Kovembi»r, he was thrown upon the streets
again. I will not say what became of the
man aiterwards, because that is not neces-
sary. I will merely mention that Iw is now
struggling on, depending entirnly on the
public Ibr a meal of victuids. 1 have myself
been to work in the city for two months, and
have not been intoxicated once. 1 am not
fond of drink. I am steady and meun to
continue so, and I trust every one hern will
resolve to do tJie same, for you will tnid it
much moi-o to your comfort. I am fortunate
enough to be able to earn a livelihood at my
tnido OS a mastm ; but thont^h I am not in
want myself, I could not retrain fh)m coming
here t*> tlimw what light I oould on this sub-
ject, and showing my roodim^s to heli> otlu^rs
who are iu distress." ( Api>lausc.)
The next who moimted the platform was on
elderly man, evidently much ro<luce<l in cir-
stances. lie statitd — '* 1 am a <look-labourer,
and in 184S was convicted, thougli innocent,
at the Old Bailey. I was within three miles
of the place whoi-e the ixjbbny of which 1
was aocusM was committed. I was certainly in
company with the female who was robbed three
hours before the theft occurred ; but I had no
hand in it, and yet I was sentenced to four-
teen years' transportation. I jMMsed my first
eleven months at Millbank ; then I went to
Woolwich, and next to Gibraltar. At the
latter place Mr. Armstrong is the overseer of
the convicts, and he is tlio severest man
ever knOwn ; not a worse being in tlio Aus-
tralian or any penal settlements. Flogging
went on there firom before daylight till long
after dark. I was aix years and eight months
imder his system, and I received 4i. lis, Qd.
on leaving Gibraltar, 2/. lOf. of ^ich was
stopped to pay my passage to England. When
I came home I strived as hard as any man to
get an honest livelihood. I tried every expe-
riment—I went an up and down Whitechapel,
but no, the poHce would not allow me — they
picked me out as a mariied man. Then I
^worked fifteen or sixteen months at the Docks,
but lately that employment has been Tety
slack, and I h«ve triad all the offices in vain
for the last fortnight I leave you to oonsider,
therefi^re, what a man is to do when he strives
to get a living and can't No man in all Lon-
don has seen more trouble than I have. In
1840 1 got three years' impriionment When
I came out a man borrowed my coat to walk
through the City with, and next day, aa I was
going past Bow Church, I was taken np for a
robbery which that man had committed, my
coat being sworn to, as it had a stain on the
collar. I was taken before Alderman Gibbs
that morning, and fully committed for trial ;
and when I appeared at Newgale I got twelve
months in tlio Compter gaol, though innocent
I had not been three months out of the
Compter before I was taken np for beating a
pclieeman, who said I threw a atone at hun,
but I never did. A fortnight afterwards the
man who <lid it got fourteen days, and I gets
two yeui-s for it, Uiough I was not nigh the
place. No man in London has suffered as I
hove done wrongfully, and none has been so
' worked up ' as I am at tliis moment. For the
last fortnight the winds have been such as to
prei'ent a single ship from coming up tlie
Channel, and morning after morning between
five hundretl and six hundred men regularly
wait at the Docks for employment and cannot
got it When I am employed, it is at the
West Quay; but tlic permanent labourers ai«
served first Such men as 1 liave yery little
chance, as they bring persons from the other
side of the Doi*k sooner than engage ^casualty'
labourers. During the eighteen months that
have elapsed sin<.'e I came fh.>m Gibraltar, I
have walked the streets of London whole days
without breaking my fast ; and sdnce twelve
o'cl(jck yesterday up to tliis moment I have
not done so. 1 really wi^h, sir, that some-
thing could be done for us alL"
Mr. ]SIayhew atiked the men whether they
thought tiie formation of a society, and a
system by which tliose who were in work could
assist those who were out of it, would boueflt
them?
To this many voices answered, " Yes ! yes ! "
Mr. Mayhew continued : " I know that if
your stock-money is onco gone you are com-
pletely helpless. A man who had been tried
for his life and sent to Australia came io me
one day, when let out of prison, with a loaf
under his arm, and said, *■ This is all I have
got to keep mo, and if I ask for work thete is
a polioeman at my heels to tell every one that
I am a returned convict.' His case became
desperate, when, about the time of the Great
Exhibition, I offered to give him a little Buwey
if he would pledge me his word to do all that
he could to lead an honest life. He ahook
hands with me, and promised to do so. He
tiien had cords printed, and tried to make a
living by selling gelatine aweets. After a
little time he took a small huckster's dliop,
and subsequently aanied a lod||iiig-hoii»>
keeper, and hae since bean doing Toy wdL J
LONJJOX LABOUR AND THE JX)KDON POOR.
4M1
know that the period between the ages of
twenty.five and fifty is the time when a roving
life has its strongest attractions; but after
that, when a man is hunted like a dog, he gets
tired of it. I have seen frequent examples of i
tliis, and known whole families of poor people,
with only sixpence at their command, to invest
that small sum in sprats, and live a month
upon it by turning it over and over.
"I once took a poor boy (a young tliief) and
got him a place at the Daily News office, when
the printer and editor told me he was as good
and as well-behaved as any boy on that estab-
lishment. The difficulty, however, was to sepa-
rate him from his old * pals.' He got among
them on an Kaster Monday, and was found
picking pockets at a fair, and taken to prison ;
it was * all up with him * till he had seen the
miseiy of his course of Hfe, but I am sure, if
taken by the hand, ho will ultimately become a
good member of society. I mention this to
show, that if a little leniency and kindness are
evinced towards the men we may beat down
the crime of the country to an enormous ex-
tent. But wo must not fancy it possible tbat
such persons can be made model-men in an
instant. Indeed, I believe that the disj^osition
sho>vn to make converts to religion of you
produces a large amount of hj-pocrisy. ( Cries of
Yes ! yes ! ) If this leads you to become better
men, in Heaven's name, say so ; but if it en-
genders the worst form of evil, let it bo ex-
posed. That there are such things as
miracles of instantaneous reformation, I don't
deny; but the first thing wanted is some
society to give men what will keep them from
starving, clothe them, and find them in a
lodging; and when they are tlius placed in
decent comfort, and made, as a necessary con-
sequence, more kindly in their nature, other
people may then come to them and try to
make them religious. To attempt, however,
to proselytise men who ai'e famishing, appears
to me a mockery- and a delusion, and only the
most depraved class of criminals would, I be-
lieve, yield to it." (Applause.)
The fifth ticket-of-leave man who addressed
the assembly was a man of middle stature,
slightly made, and between twenty -five and
thirty. He said : —
" I was sentenced to seven years' transport-
ation at the Old Bailey. I went to Wake-
field and con confirm the statement of a
previous speaker, that no gratuities are allowed
there. I next went to Portsmouth, where I
remained two years and two months, when I
was discharged on ticket-of-leave. I returned
to the neighbourhood from whence I was com-
mitted. A master who promised to give me
constant employment had before this given me
a certificate. I was discharged about eighteen
months ago. Whilst I was at work for my
master a female came up to me and asked me
if I had seen two other women pass. I an-
swered, *No,' when she imited me to have
something to drink ; and knowing the female,
I accepted her offer. While walking with her,
only two doors from where I lived, a poUceman
came np and took us both into costody.
This, I suppose, was because I was known to
be a returned con\'ict The woman wbs
charged with being concerned with otbezs of
her own sex with robbing a gentleman, toad
on being searched a portion of the money was
found on her, but none on me. Moreover,
the gentleman stating that there was no man
engaged in the theft, I was discharged. I
then resumed work, but was taken again npon
a charge of burglary. Many of you may have
heard of the case. I was in my shirt-sleeves
when I was arrested. The case was tried be-
fore Mr. Brenham. I did not deny my name,
and being a ticket-of-leave man I was re-
manded for a week. I was afterwards brought
up and re-examined, and after a careful in-
vestigation I was discharged. If there had
been the slightest suspicion attaching to me,
from my chai'acter being known, I must have
been either imprisoned for three months, or
committed for trial. I again returned to my
work, but in three weeks afterwards I was
dragged out of my bed and locked up for three
hours in the Bagnigge-wells station, whence
I was taken to Bow-street. Three policemen
had burst my bedroom-door open before six
o'clock in the morning, and while it was yet
daik. They said they wanted me, because I
had been concerned with a female in the
robbery which had occurred two nights pre-
vious, on Pentonville . hilL The inspector
told me he hod received an order from the
Secretary of State to send me bock to Ports-
mouth prison, my license being revoked.
When I got to Bow-street I was placed before
Mr. HaU, not in open court, but in a private
room. That gentleman also told me that my
license had been revoked, on the alleged
grounds that I was living by dishonest means.
I was sent back to prison accordingly; but
through the intercession of my brother — a
married man, who showed that I had been
working for twelve months — I was again re-
leased. There was no just ground whatever
for sending me back to prison. I have only
been home a fortnight, and liaving no tools
I don't know what to do. The master who
employed mo before has got another man."
Mb. Mathew here remarked, that it would
be a great encouragement to Society to help
them, if those who were doing well asftisted
those who were doing badly ; whereupon
p£T£B observed that *' it was little help that
the one could possibly give to the other. An
Association (he said) was what was wanted,
whereby the men's present urgent necessitieB
could be relieved before they fell into mischieL
A few days after a man's liberation he gene-
rally found that he had acted foolishly, and
returned to his senses. If^ therefore, a Bodety
took him by the hand, and gpave him tem-
porarj' shelter and counsel, it would be the
best lhiuglhat4)ouhi happen to him."
4:JS
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON POOR.
Those of the lads and mon present who
had been lofl without father or mother from
■n early age, wore then requested to hold up
their hands ; when twenty out of the forty-
eight did HO.
A lame blacksmith and fitter, of about forty,
whose garb and complexion were in strict
keeping with his craft, and who spoke with
not a few grains of stem bitterness in his
tone, next mounted the rostrum. Ho said :
•* I have been transported, and am a * spotted
man,' with whom the police can do as they
like. J w&s a long time at Dartmoor, one of tlie
hardest convict stations a man can po U\ and I
did the prison work there. I went there in
IrtSl, when nn eminent doctor, Mr. Mcintosh,
belonged to the place, but having good health
I did not need liis assistance. While in the
infirmarj' on several occjtsions, but not for ill-
ness, I saw the medicine that was given to
the patients. It was only a large bottle of
salts. I have known a man to be cut out of
his hammock,takcn dov^Ti-stidrs, and buried, all
in three boiu*s ; and I liave heurd the doctor
say of a sick man, * I^t him drink out of a
pail till he biursts.' (Some sensation.) I was
a privileged man because I was handy, and
fitted up almost the whole iron-work of tlio
place. Once some books were pilfered ; and
at dinner-time there was a general turn over
and search at parade. The • searcher ' was a
very sedate man, at least in the eyes of the
Governor, but he was the most malicious per-
son that ever stripped. After feeling the
pockets of the man next to me, this person
called me out, and, contrary to the rule, took
me into the yard and stripped me naked. I
remonstrated, and wished him to choose a
place not in the open air, but for this I was
ordered to a cell, and while on my way there
he borrf)wed a sword from an officer — the
foreman of the smith's shop — and made a cut
at me with the back edge of the weapon, in-
flicting a wound of eighteen inches long. I
went to my cell, and next morning I was, to
my astonishment, charged with attempting to
knock this very man down with a hummer !
The Governor would not hear a word that I
had to say. I was insi>ected by the doctor,
and then put back, to appear afterwards before
the directors. The charge against me was
wlioUy false. The foreman of the smith's
shop was a straightforward man, and when
applied to about my character, he told the
governor that a quieter man, and one more
capable of doing his work than me, he could
not wish to see. The accuser could not look
me in the face ; but if the foreman spoke the
truth to the directors, — and he was a man who
would speak nothing else, — he would have
been sure to have his band removed from his
cap. So, instead of my being taken before the
directors, I was sent to my dinner; and I
never received the least redress for the wrongs
I endured.
" Before returning home I was classed as a
permanent invalid, and yet I was kept at work
on iron-work of three tons weight. After
acting four years as a mechanic and a * first-
rater • at Dartmoor, I got invalided pay, and
went home with about 7/. in my pocket. That
is all tlie reward given to a good workman and
well-conducted man at Dartmoor. I have
heard much of Wakefield, and believe the sys-
tem there will reform any man. It has a fint-
rate character ; but as to Dartmoor, a man
lea\'ing it can have no reformation in him.
At Dartmoor, when visitors wish to try the
prisoners' soup, a basin of nice beef tea,
standing smoking on the hob, and fit to
show gentlemen, is offered them to taste.
But this is not the soup which is really given
to the convicts ; that is merely a little rice and
water. In fact, Dartmoor is one of the most
villnnous places a man can be put into. You
have tliere to swab up two or three pails of
water before you can rise in the morning.
The brutality practised is terrible; and re-
main l>er, when a man is pre^judiced against
the treatment he receives, no permanent im-
provement of his character is possible. Let
any Dartmoor man here get up and deny
what I say about the place, if he can. The
aristocracy fancy that it is an excellent convict
station, but it is not I have seen clean and
comfortable-looking men taken off parade, bt*.
cause they would not do an officer's dirty
work, and conducted to a covered passage, from
which they have not come out again until they
did so with faces cut about and bleeding, and
with clothes all torn to pieces. I don't say
that all the other convict establishments are
like Dartmoor. I have seen bodies of seventy
and eighty men come there iVom Wakefield—*
good-intentioned persons, and evidently having
undergone religious impressions, to juilge by
their regularly kneeling down to prayers ; but
Dartmoor must contaminate them, and make ,
them worse than ever before tliey leave it I
never had* any particular religious feelings
myself while at Dartmoor; but I am sure that j
a pious life is the most comfortable one imder .
the canopy of heaven. I was very wrongfVilly j
sent away to that penal establishment I had I
never been convicted before ; and my only >
ofi^ence was being concerned iu a tap-roem I
drunken fight-, for which I was charged with a
misdemeanour. It was stated that I intended
to do a man some grievous iKMlily harm, but
it was proved that I had no weapon at the
time larger than a penny-piece. I only left
Dartmoor six or seven montlis ago. If I were
in work, I should be most happy to g^ve my
mite towards the society that this gentleman
(Mr. May hew) speaks of^ for the benefit of
the poor ticket-of-leave men ; but the slackness
of trade has thrown me out for the last month,
and I have maintained myself and four others
who are on my hands for half-a-year."
The concluding speaker was a young and
deanly.looking working man, of preposse&sing
address, who stated : — ^ I have experienced
LONDON LABOUR AND THE LONDON I'OOii,
400
considerable oppression from the x>olice, who,
I think, want as much showing up as anybody.
In January, 1852, I was sentenced to seven
years' transportation. I stopped at the House
of Correction for some time, and then went to
Northampton borough gaol^ where I lay eleven
months. Thence I was sent to Woolwich,
where I stayed about two years and five
months, and was employed in dragging timber
from one end of the yard to the other. How-
ever, I did very well there, and I find no fault
with the place. When I got my liberty I re-
turned home, where I had a father and mother
and a sister; but as they were in humble
circumstances, I did not like to throw my-
self on ihem for my support, and so I
looked about fbr someOiing to do. I am now
keeping company with a young woman. One
night as I was going home, at half-past
twelve, after sitting some hours with her and
her faiher, a policeman suddenly comes up to
me, and tappmg me on the shoulder, says :
' Holloa, George ; so here you are ! Mind I
dont send you somewhere else for twelve
months.' I answered : * So you may, when I
have given you occasion for it' My landlord
saw us, and said that I had done nothing.
*No,' said the policeman, *or I would not
allow him to go free ;' and he then told me to
move on. My young woman's father keeps a
barber's shop; and ^bis policeman goes up to
him and acquaints him with my character,
asking him whether he is aware that the
young man his daughter keeps company with
is a returned convicL The father tells her of
it, at least she gives me broad hints that imply
as much. This man then shows me up, and
exposes me several times to the tradesmen in
my neighbourhood. I then see what I can do.
I cannot get a certificate of character, and I
try to write one myselt Then I get several
monthc' imprisonment, and now I have been
out seven weeks. But I have not done any-
thing dishonest Still, if it goes on like this,
I am sure I must be compelled to do that A
fortnight ago, as I was going home, the same
policeman again interfered with me, and I was
obliged to put up with his insults. Last week
I wrote a letter to the captain of the hulks at
Woolwich, telling him of the oppression I
sufier. I received a letter from the chaplain,
of course containing religious advice, but the
answer I obtained from the captain of the
hulks was, that the next time I am insulted I
should write to him again, when he will
acquaint the Secretory of State with it, and
put it down, if possible. How can we hope to
get employment from any tradesmen, if the
policemen persist in telling who we are ? I
know that if I were an independent gentleman
myself, I would not trust a man who had no
reference of some kind."
Mb. Mathsw : '< We will now break up this
meeting. I will let you know when to meet
again. When I can arrange the formation of
a committee of gentlemen willing to connect
themselves with the undertaking I have
sketched out, we can hold another assemblage
in public. (Cheers.) In the meontipie, if I
can assist any of you with the loan of a few
shillings — but, mind you, come to me gently,
and not thick and fast — ^I will do what I can
to help you. (Hear, hoar^ I am a person
who work myself for all I get, and remem-
ber I call myself a * shilling man,' and not one
of your * sovereign people * (Laughter) ; and
wlien I say *■ a loan,' I want you all to feel that
by doing yoiur best to repay me, you will en-
able me to extend the same assistance to a
greater number of your class. (Hear, hear.)
Colonel Jebb looks on you almost with the
eye of a father, and it touches him to the
quick to hear of any of you relapsing. I trust
that we shall prove successful in our object ;
but let me in conclusion entreat you il to
adhere faithfully to your good resolves ; and
I hope you will find far greater happiness in
pursuing honest courses than dishonest ones.**
(Cheers.)
The meeting, which lasted from eight
o'clock to half-past ten, and was most orderly
throughout, then quietly dispersed.
THi: END
INDEX.
Acrobats, or streeirperfonnen - - 90
Actors, strolling ----- 139
Bagpipe-players, the - - - 161,168
Ballad-singers, street - - - - 195
Ballast-getters, the - - - - - 269
Ballast-heavers, the - - - - 272
irives, meetmg of - 285
Ballast-lightormen, the - - - - 271
JBallast-men, the ----- 265
Ballet perfonners ----- 144
Befrtlc-destroycrs ----- 40
Billy BjitIow ------ 138
Birds and mice, exhibitor of - - - 219
Bluck, Jr.ck, statement of - - - 11
Black-beetles, natural history of - - 39
Blind reader, the - - - - - 154
—^— performer on the bells- - - 161
— fenude violin-player - - - 161
*- Scotch violoncello-player - - 162
— Irish piper ^ - - - - 162
Boy inmates of the oonxal mxda of the
London workhouses, statements of - 388
Bug-destrover, Her Majesty's - - 36
Bugs and fleas, natural history of - - 34
Cabmen, character of - - - - 851
— crime amongst - - - 856
Cabs, introduction of • - - - 850
regulations for - - - - 354
Carmen and porters - - - - 857
Carmen, the London - - - - 361
Carrying trade, the- - - - - 361
Casual wards of London warkhonaes,
stixtcmenta of boy-inmates - - - 388
— _— — — number of applicants 392
Catch-'em-alive sellers - - - - 28
Cholker on flag-stones - - - - 214
Charities, and sums given to the poor - 429
Cheap lodging-houses - - - - 312
— ^--^-^— ^-^ inmates of - - 31S
Chinese shades, the - - - - 74
Clown, street, the - - - - - 119
penny-gafi^ the - - - - 121
canvas, the ----- 126
Coal-backers, statements of - - - 243
Coal-heavers, the, statements of - - 233
Coal-moters, the ----- 260
Coal-porters, the, statements of • •> 261
Concertina-player on the steamboats - 182
8:
Conjuror, street, the - - - - 107
statement of another - 110
Crickets, natural history of - - - 41
Dancinff-dogs, the ----- 181
Dock-lfU)ourers, the - - - - 800
Doll's-eye maker, the - - - • flSl
Dominion of fancy, or Pondi's opera - 58
Dram and pif^es, perfonnen on - - 189
Drunkenness in different taides, table of 245
Fantoccini man, the - - - - 80
** Farm-yard " player - - - - 161
Flies, natural liistory of - - - - 24
Fly-papor maker - - - - - 81
French hurdy-gurdy players, and
dancing-children- - - - 171
Qarret-masters, statements of - - 221
Glee-singers, street ----- 194
Gun-exercise exhibitor, on&-lQggod
ItaUan -------155
Guy Fawkes man ----- 87
boy 70
Guy Fawkescs ------ 64
Hackney-coach and cabmen - - - 847
Happy family, the, exhibitor - - 214
1 original - - - - 215
Harp-player, the poor - - - - 174
Inland navigation ----- 828
Italian with monkey - - - - 179
Italian pipers and claiionot-players - 177
Jester, penny drcnsb the - - - 181
Juggler, street^ the . - - - 104
Labonxers, timbeiKlock - - - - 292
casual ----- 800
dock ----- 800
Lightermen and bargemen, the - - 382
London Dock, tho - - - - - 301
London omnibus-drivers and conductors 336
London vagrants ----- 368
London vagrants, asylums for the
houseless ------ 406
London watermen, lightermen, and
steamboat-men ----- 828
Lumpers, the ----- - 288
442
na)EX
PAO*
Mechanical flgnrcfl, exhibitor of - - 77
llr*rcantile marine, the - - - - 818
Microicopc, exhibitor of the - - - 63
NojTTo 8cn*na(lcra, street, ■tatemenia
of ------- 190. 191
OldSarali 159
OnmiboAca, origin of - - - - 839
■ proprietors - - - - 842
drivcra ----- 344
conductors - - - - 845
■ timekeepers - - - 846
Organ-man, the, irith flnto-harmoninm
organ ------- 174
Peep-shows ------ 88
Penny circns-jcster ----- 181
Penny mouse-trap maker, tlio - - 21
Penny profile-cutter, tlie - - - 210
Photographic man, statement of a - 206
Phutugi,^pU>, kUvt t - - - - 204
Partora, th^daal&patioiiof- - . S64
tio3ckp1lia- - - - - 805
ticket^ the- - - - - 865
packen,fhe - - - - 366
street, the ----- 866
fellowship, the - - - - 867
Profile-cutter, penny, the - - - 210
blind, the - - - 213
Punch -------43
talk 41
— 'tt ri^freahm^iut - - - - 48
^ ]iij*li>ry of ----- 48
■ 'sfignrea ----- 50
's frame and i>ro8coniuui - - 53
•^—-*8 opera described - - - 53
Punclimon at the theatre - - - 48
Punchmon, scene with two - - - 47
tRdBo - -
' pentonfl employed
Bat-ktUcri the
Jttmm Bhaw -
. Jack Black - -
the Suwerman
821
823
825
1
9
11
20
5
8
152
Hat-kiUinp. niia^ht al - - - -
Ilatif ntttuzul hiatoij of '
Hi^citeri slroet* the - - - - -
Eefuge for the homdoGB, Playhouse
Yard, Oripplcigflto - - 407,417
statements of
inmatea - - - 407
description of 428
Returned convict,- statement of
Kisley, street, the - - -
TACM
- 423
- 94
Si Katherine*s Docks - - - - 311
pewtiTDim^ tbe* a rotcalcliC'r - - - 2i)
Scotch piper and dancing ^irl - - IG4
&lniWt Jt*mmy» Htatcmont of - - - 9
Bhowman, (itretjt, au old - - - 79
Silly Billy ------ 134
6niiki^ ffword, and kdfe ewallower, the 117
I Stcvm navigation ----- 333
Stilt'Tunltcra ----- 148
Btr^iit ftliowmatit an old - - - - 72
pODtman, the ----- <«>
Kisley, tho ----- Ot
jut^^ler, the - - - - - 104
coi^uror, tho ----- 107
clown, the - - - - - 119
reciter, the - - - - - 151
' " negro eerenAdeiiv statements of - 1 JX)
pie© Ainjc^ero ----- im
ballad iiiaf^era or chauntens - 195
Btrtjut pbotogTtiphy ----- 204
SlnMjt btt«d3» English - - - -103
— — German - - - - 104
fitTolliiife^ actor* - - - - - 139
Strong man, tho ----- yg
Telescope, exhibitor of - - - - 79
Thamfti watermen, the - - - - 328
Tiokei-of4eft¥o men^ meeting of - - 4M
I BtaiL*inc*nta of - 431
1 Tighl-rope danoen and stilt-vaulters - 118
I Timber-dock lalKmrers - - - - 2ji2
Timberimd deal trefll*;. tho - - - :iu5
, Tom4um pliiyt^ri, ftidi-mt-n(rf of - isr>, 1j<S
I Tumpikc'-roads and stage-coaches - 319
Vagrancy, causes of - - - - 303
Vagrants, tho London - . - - 368
— — cladsiiication of - - - 'Ml
— - statements of - - - - :178
— ^— number and cost of - - ''»y7
routes of tho - - - - 3y8
Watermen, tho ----- 353
tho Thamea - - - - 3*28
West India DoekH, tho - - - - :U0
Wlii8tliii|L? man, tho - - - - 1U7
unci dancing boy, the - - ll»0
Hilly '2(n)
Writer without lioiuls - - - - *J13
Lonwert racmD sr w. aowu axd soxs, tTAvroKD btbrt.